A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing
by The Real Muse
Summary: A plane crash wounds Ray and leaves the Ghostbusters to deal with the dangerous Naggaoth, the ancient Lord of Decay. Only help from Sam Beckett can save them. The question is, why don’t they trust him? (Quantum Leap crossover)
1. Default Chapter

A Sheep In Wolf's Clothing  
  
CindyR  
  
A/N Angst Warning! Be ready!  
  
The blue light faded into that now familiar sensation of disorientation and dizziness,which invariably accompanied each leap. Sam staggered, re- righting himself immediately with the ease of long experience, then twisted his head, the better to examine his new surroundings -- not that there was much to look at. Rough wood planks made up the walls and floor of what appeared to be a rustic cabin, brightly lit by two wide windows set into opposing sides. Furniture was sparse, consisting of a cot beneath the eastern-most window, a couple of hard chairs opposing the cot and a small kitchen area occupying a nook all its own. Three doors completed the picture, one leading into the gray-green world revealed by the windows, tightly shut against the pounding rain without, another half opened to reveal a small restroom and the third featureless save for a large bolt which secured it shut  
  
Sam sniffed deeply, savoring the smell of the fresh coffee gurgling merrily on the stove. He surveyed his new domicile for some moments, a small smile decorating his lips, "Not bad," he murmured, cocking his head, "Sounds like a generator somewhere on the grounds. Comfortable, warm, simple...."  
  
"Boring," a gravelly voice added from behind.  
  
Sam started, spinning on the voice, but recognition eased the surprised tension almost at once. "I happen to like boring," he retorted, running his eyes up and down the newcomer's apparel with evident disbelief. "That's ... uh ... new, isn't it?" he asked innocently.  
  
Al Calavicci turned a slow circle, muted sunlight reflecting in little waves off of the silver and gold jacket he sported, then shimmering downward to kiss the silver hightop sneakers adorning his feet "Like it?"  
  
Sam cleared his throat - loudly. "It's certainly different," he said at last, busying himself with rescuing the madly boiling coffee. He frowned and turned when a new thought struck him. "Hey, how come I can see the sun reflecting off your clothes? Besides the fact that it's raining, I mean."  
  
Al waved his cigar expansively, turning one final time in place. "Blame it on a combination of your filler-inner-type imagination and those killer lights in the imaging chamber. As to the outfit." He stuck the cigar between his teeth, took a drag, then removed it. "I picked this little number up the last time I hit LA ... along with another little number named Stephanie, who...."  
  
Beckett cut him off with a hastily raised hand. "Spare me the story, Al," he begged, glancing briefly at a small radio transceiver unit in the corner before crossing to tug at the closed door. "Do you have any idea why I'm here yet?"  
  
"That'll work better if you unbolt it first," Calavicci pointed out, peeking over Sam's shoulder.  
  
Beckett stopped his tugging to shoot the older man a sour look. "I can see why they made you an Admiral," he returned sarcastically. "No civilian has a chance around you, do they?"  
  
Al looked hurt. "Not everyone can be a quantum physicist," he said, waving his cigar in a grand gesture.  
  
Sam frowned. "But you are a quantum...." He broke off with a weary sigh. "Never mind. You want to tell me who I am?" He gave the bolt a mighty yank, nearly falling over when it slipped easily to the side.  
  
Al waited until he'd regained his footing before consulting a flashing computer link and punching it on. "This is October 4, 1990 and your name is Harry Bauer. You were born 62 years ago in New York City and are presently in..." He gave the unit a shake. "...some valley about sixty miles from the Maine-New Hampshire boarder." He scowled and shook the unit again; it blinked a bright red then went blank. "Ziggy has no idea what you're doing here. Either that or he won't say."  
  
Sam pulled open the heavy door, but paused to glance at his friend quickly before stepping inside and pawing for the light switch. "No idea at all?" he inquired, raising one brow. "What about a projection?"  
  
Al studied his handlink intently for several seconds, once giving it a sound thwack with the heel of his hand for good measure. Finally, he shook his head. "Ziggy ain't sayin' nothing, Sam. Whatever it is, though, Gooshie thinks it could be big. Ziggy's been behaving really strange for the past day or two."  
  
"Define 'strange,"' Sam muttered, adding, "Oh, wow!" when his questing fingers finally located their target, the wall switch. He pressed it, flooding the room with light "Look, Al!" he exclaimed, bounding across the threshold. "It's a full lab!"  
  
"So I see," the other acknowledged, walking through the wall to reach his friend's side. "Working lab, too, if all this equipment is any indication."  
  
"Wow!" Sam wandered the room eagerly, occasionally stopping to finger one of the teaming beakers, or to tap some of the state-of-the-art measuring equipment neatly lining a far side of the twelve-foot by twelve-foot room. "Wonder what they're researching here! And why choose to stick a lab all the way out here in the woods?"  
  
Al shrugged. "Got me. If it's some kind of government research, then it's so hush-hush that even Ziggy can't find out what it is. Looks like a chem lab, though."  
  
Sam studied a bank of chemical supplies, then turned and made his way back to the door. "I recognize the chemicals stored here but not the application. I'll look around a bit more; if it's a research lab I should be able to find some notes... or at least a computer terminal," he finished, giving the room a final puzzled glance before quitting it.  
  
He closed and secured the door, then made his ritual search for a mirror, finding one hanging forlornly on the back of the outside door. "So that's what I look like," he murmured, studying the reflection. Instead of Sam's own youthful features, a withered head returned his scrutiny from atop a gangly, stoop-shouldered body. Lines of cruelty and dissipation were etched deeply around the chin and mouth, and Sam tried a smile, grimacing at the effect the broken teeth added to that less-than-pleasant appearance. What caught and held his attention, however were the black eyes, which stared back at him from the elderly face - cold eyes, as hard as marbles. Unaccountably, Sam shuddered. "I'm only 62?" he said aloud, aligning the battered fishing hat more securely on his apparently balding pate.  
  
"Harry is only 62," Al corrected him patiently. "You are never gonna see 62 unless you get off your duff and...." He stopped abruptly, his ear cocked. "Listen."  
  
Beckett tilled his head obediently. "The rain's stopped," he remarked, lifting one shoulder. "So?"  
  
The other shushed him with a gesture. "Not the rain, Sam," he said. "An airplane - and it's in trouble."  
  
"But I don't hear any engines," Sam protested, allowing himself to be hustled out the front door into a pleasant little clearing, still sparkling with drops from the recent rain.  
  
"That's why it's in trouble," the older man retorted impatiently. "Look! Over there!" Sam looked just as a battered, silver winged commuter streaked by overhead. The nose rose barely in time to avoid the first row of trees and then she was down, a loud crash heralding her impact. Al punched several numbers into his hand-link, vanished for an instant and then reappeared, waving frantically. "This way, Sam!" he hailed, gesticulating with both hands. "There's a clearing over here. 'Bout half a mile!"  
  
Sam took off at a run, Al popping up every few minutes to offer course corrections and encouragement "Maybe this has something to do with the reason I'm here?" Sam wondered aloud, increasing his speed to keep up with his friend.  
  
But for that, naturally, there was no answer to be had at all. Not yet.  
  
*** 


	2. Chapter 2

Ray Stantz hated to fly in small planes with a passion and a sincerity that denied all doubt, and no one who had ever caught sight of his drawn, green- tinged face could have possibly failed to understand the reason behind that feeling. He sat huddled miserably in his aisle seat while two of his fellow Ghostbusters hovered solicitously over him from either side.  
  
"How about trying another Dramamine, Ray?" the taller of his two fellows suggested, leaning as close to Stantz as his seatbelt would allow. He proffered a small packet, promptly dropping it when the nearly-empty twenty- seater plunged sharply downwards before re-righting itself at a decided angle. He retrieved the packet and offered it again. "If you can just keep one down long enough for it to dissolve...."  
  
"That's his problem. Egon," the brown-haired man on Stantz' other side protested. "If he could keep anything down, he wouldn't be in the shape he's in now."  
  
"I've already tried twice," Ray groaned, clutching his stomach with one hand and his head with the other. "Oh, gosh, I hate small planes."  
  
Peter Venkman's green eyes shone mischievously at his friend's screwed up face. "Couldn't have anything to do with all that calamari you put down at lunch, could it?" he suggested, turning to peer out the double-glassed window. "Squishy things make me sick sometimes, too."  
  
"Peter!" Spengler scolded.  
  
"But we were celebrating busting that Class 8," Ray began, only to groan again. "And I didn't know what calamari was and-." He dropped his head into his hand. "And thanks for reminding me, Peter. I'll remember you in my will, which I may need before this trip is out."  
  
"It was something worth celebrating," Egon pointed out fairly. "We successfully trapped a Class 8, semi-corporeal, source specific nether- lord, who survived in our universe by eating human flesh."  
  
Ray nodded then looked like he wished he hadn't. "Naggaoth, the one the Indians used to call the Lord of Decay. He smelled like it, too."  
  
"He killed several people after finding that access point to our world," the blond physicist went on. "If we hadn't trapped him and closed the dimensional nexus, there's no telling how many people would have died. Well worth celebrating his capture," he repeated.  
  
'I've been celebrating a case without Slimer being around," Venkman returned shortly. He left off his scrutiny of the unchanging clouds to shoot Stantz an apologetic look. "Sorry, pal. I guess you're not up to it right now." The sky outside the window lit up briefly, the laserlight accompanied by a sharp clap of thunder seconds later. "Oh, terrific. Now we've got a full-fledged storm to worry about, too."  
  
"Nasty one, at that." The statement preceded the speaker by a fraction of a second as Winston Zeddemore made his way back through the cabin from the pilot's compartment, closely followed by Ann McDonnell, the pretty stewardess assigned to the flight. "I was in talking to Captain Rosenberg when the latest weather report came through. Looks like we're in for some pretty rough weather before we make it across these mountains."  
  
"Swell," Ray muttered, closing his eyes. "Now I've got something to look forward to."  
  
"Getting down?" Winston asked kindly.  
  
Stantz shook his head. "No, dying, because I know I'm not going to survive this."  
  
Winston laughed. "You don't mean that, homebrew, but I understand." He patted Stantz on the shoulder in rough sympathy, then looked around when a small hand tapped his own arm.  
  
"I'm going to have to ask you to take your seat, Mr. Zeddemore," the stewardess stated firmly. "With this much turbulence, it's dangerous to remain unstrapped."  
  
"Would you like to check my seatbelt for... safety purposes?" Peter asked, arching a brow.  
  
Ann rolled her eyes heavenward, but her smile was genuinely friendly. "I think I can trust you to look after your own 'safety purposes,' Dr. Venkman," she retorted. "I... OH!" The plane chose that moment to perform three-quarters of a loop-the-loop, tossing her neatly into the lap of a surprised if not displeased Egon Spengler. "Excuse me. Dr. Spengler."  
  
Egon smiled charmingly as he helped her to regain her feet, then balanced her with a hand placed firmly in the small of her back. "Not at all, Ann." His smile widened into a full fledged grin. "I assume this means we're on for dinner?"  
  
Ann giggled, and it was Peter's turn to roll his eyes. "And I thought I was the smooth one," he grumbled, crossing his arms.  
  
Winston, determinedly ignoring the byplay, took a seat behind Ray's, then buckled his seatbelt and adjusted it firmly across his hips. "Do you think the pilot's going to try to fly above the storm," he wondered, "or are we as high as the plane can go?"  
  
Ann puckered her perfect brow. "I'm not really sure about that. Let me ask the pilot for you." She rubbed her own stomach ruefully. "Frankly, I hope he can do something. Even the crew isn't immune to airsickness in conditions like this." Flashing Egon another smile, she turned and disappeared back through the heavy curtains which unevenly divided the plane in two.  
  
Thunder blared again and the little plane was shaken to its core by the vibration of the near-blast. When it had at last righted itself, the color of Ray's face had shifted subtly from green to chalk. "Ex-excuse me," he gasped, unhooking his belt and letting it retract with a little snap. "I-I think.."  
  
Spengler caught his arm as he rose. "Raymond, perhaps you should remain in your seat. The turbulence..."  
  
Ray shook himself free, clapped a hand to his mouth and fled for the restroom in the rear, from which the sound of someone being violently ill was soon heard.  
  
"Kid's really sick," Winston said, grabbing for his armrest when the plane shivered again. "We're going to have to either send him on the big flights or drug him unconscious from now on." He was about to say more when the heavens roared once more, and the cabin lights flickered and died, "What the...?"  
  
The restroom door swung open just as the emergency lighting switched on, bathing the compartment in red. "Egon?" Ray asked, a note of fear in his voice. "What.?"  
  
That Was when the world went mad. The cabin shuddered again, then dropped sharply as the light plane was caught in a seething downdraft of monumental proportions. The power gone, it dipped and spun, as helpless as a toy in the hands of a colossal child. Conversely, the scream of over-stressed metal rose, louder even than the lightning without or the human voices raised in terror within.  
  
Ray yelped once as the floor assumed an angle perpendicular to the ground, pitching him past Peter's automatic snatch and forward the length of the cabin where he smashed hard, shoulder-first into the heavy bulkhead wall. This coincided with the wrenching shriek of tortured aluminum as the nose pitched upward, bounced once and then skewed a simple cartwheel before sliding to a halt.  
  
All was silent for some minutes until Peter's peevish tenor shattered the ozone charged air. "Talk about an 'E' ticket," he muttered, straightening from the defensive ball he'd curled into the minute the plane had started to fall. "You guys okay?"  
  
There was no answer at first, and he raised his head worriedly to glance around. "Egon?" he called, reaching across the aisle to poke the tall blond in the arm. "Egon, are you with me, buddy?"  
  
Spengler's groan was eloquent by its very brevity. "Wonderful," he snapped, sitting up and cradling his left hand in his right "I enjoy plane crashes; this is how I get my kicks."  
  
"Janine's gonna be surprised to hear that!" Peter quipped, ignoring Egon's sour glare and unsnapping his seatbelt "How's the hand?"  
  
Egon grimaced. "My wrist impacted with the armrest rather violently when we crashed." He made to turn it over, winced and laid it back in his lap. "I think it's broken."  
  
Peter regarded him seriously for a moment, then shook his head. "I'll take a look at it for you in a minute. Winston? Ray? You two okay?"  
  
"Don't yell, man," Zeddemore begged, a snap proclaiming the release of his own lap belt. "I got me a headache that I wouldn't wish on Walter Peck."  
  
Peter grimaced. "He's the only one I.." His words trailed off as every trace of color leached from his face in a rush. "Ray wasn't strapped in," he breathed, lurching to his feet "Ray?!"  
  
"We lost the cabin door," Egon added, pointing at the gaping hole where fully one half of the port fuselage had been torn away by the force of the crash. Using his right hand, he freed himself from his belt and pulled himself determinedly up. "Winston, check the cockpit; Peter, help me find-- "  
  
"Ray," Peter finished, dropping to his knees beside the unmoving heap of tan uniform and auburn hair sprawled gracelessly in one corner of the cabin. Very hesitantly, he reached out to touch the man's shoulder, then froze at the first sight of the blood which covered Ray's entire abdomen and was even now staining the knee of Peter's pants crimson. He recoiled, horror written in his green eyes. "Egon!"  
  
"I see him. Peter." Spengler's expression was grim as he took his place at Ray's other side and pressed two fingers against the occultist's white throat "He's still alive," he reported after a moment  
  
Peter gulped loudly, only then remembering to breathe at all. "Ray, can you hear me?" There was no reply and he tried again, louder "Come on, buddy, answer me," There was no response to this heartfelt plea, either. Peter unzipped Ray's sand colored jumpsuit, then carefully eased up the black t- shirt, until he could give himself a full view of the wound. A piece of metal just barely identifiable as a component of the floor strip lighting had entered Ray's lower right side at an angle, snapping off nearly two inches beyond the wide circle of purple and swollen skin, three inches to the right of and one inch below the navel.  
  
Peter grimaced and ran his fingers around the base of the metal strip, his jaw clenched tight with determination. "Hold him still, Egon," he commanded flatly. "I'm going to give this spike a pull--"  
  
"No!" Spengler stopped the incipient action by clamping a large hand around Peter's wrist. "Leave it where it is." He hesitated at the fire which lit the other's face, but maintained his hold, nonetheless. "If you pull that spike out of his side," he explained reasonably, "Ray's going to bleed that much worse. As long as the metal remains where it is, it'll act as a kind of cork, which should help control the bleeding... as much as anything will," he added with innate if unwilling honesty.  
  
A muscle jumped in Peter's jaw, then he nodded reluctantly and Egon released his hand. "Ray," the psychologist called, patting the unconscious man's cheeks. "Wake up, kid. Please?"  
  
Winston reappeared from the cockpit at that moment, his face set, his fists clenched. "The pilot and copilot are dead," he reported, bracing himself against Peter's shoulder. "Looks like we hit nose-first; it's all crumpled in on itself -- and them."  
  
Egon looked up at that, reading his answer in Winston's dark eyes even before asking, "And Ann?"  
  
Zeddemore shook his head. "She's over here," he said quietly, gesturing at the single shoe visible from behind the curtain. "Broken neck. At least it was... quick. How's Ray?"  
  
Egon turned away, resettling his gaze on the slack features of his youngest friend. "He's still alive," Peter supplied when it became apparent that Egon would not. "He's bleeding and without medical assistance...."  
  
Ray's lashes fluttered, then opened, revealing only disorientation and bewilderment. "P--Peter," he whispered, gazing blankly upwards. "Peter...?"  
  
"Right here, Ray." Venkman dropped the rest of the way to the floor, heedless of the blood which continued to soak his trousers. "Don't try to talk; you're going to be fine." Wide brown eyes followed the sound until they centered in the general direction of Venkman's worried face. The psychologist bent closer, forcing a smile. "Hey, kid," he said easily. "You had us worried for a minute there. How're you feeling?"  
  
Ray blinked up at him, uncomprehending at first. Then he shuddered and closed his eyes as the first waves of pain struck. "P-Peter," he gasped, "Peter... hurts."  
  
Venkman's smile vanished. He clasped Ray's hand between both his own and turned a panicked look at Spengler. "Do something!" he ordered, finding his voice again. "Help him!"  
  
"Let me in there, Pete." Winston slid into the comer, nudging Egon out of the way with his elbow, then knelt to examine the wound for himself. "See if you can find a medical kit," he told the blond tersely, probing at the surrounding tissue. His touch was gentle but even that much forced a pained moan from between Ray's lips.  
  
Peter glared. "Can't you be more careful?" he snapped, freeing his right hand to cup Ray's cheek. Ray leaned into the touch, staring at Peter as though the psychologist were the only thing in existence.  
  
Winston spared him a single glance and shook his head. "It's going to get worse," he muttered softly. Then he gritted his teeth and shifted into Ray's line of sight. "Listen to me, Ray," he said. "Ray?  
  
"Peter," Ray whispered again, paying him no heed.  
  
"No, Ray, listen to me." Winston took Ray's face in his hands, forcing him to look to the left. Peter growled deep in his throat but held his peace for once. "No, don't look away," Winston commanded firmly. "Look at me."  
  
Ray ceased his weak struggle to regain contact with Peter and focused his gaze on Zeddemore's worried features. "You've been hurt, Ray," the black Ghostbuster said quietly, "and we're going to have to try and get that bleeding stopped." He paused, staring directly into the man's wide brown eyes, willing him to understand. "It's going to hurt - a lot. Think you can handle it?"  
  
Ray returned the stare a long moment, then twisted his head until he could see Peter's face again. He licked his lips and nodded. Peter smiled. "That's my boy," he declared, squeezing Ray's hand. "Hang on to me, okay?"  
  
Ray nodded again and Winston squared his shoulders. "You hang on to him, Pete." he admonished, then he brought his left palm down full onto a point just beyond the wound, pressing firmly. Ray*s body arched, nearly tearing out of Peter's restraining hold. He uttered a low scream then went limp.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?!" Peter yelled, only his grip on Ray preventing him from lunging for the black man's throat "If you're trying to kill him...."  
  
"Pressure on the wound," Zeddemore returned, the tremor in his voice betraying his own agitation. "He's going die if we can't stop the bleeding."  
  
Egon made his way from the rear of the plane, waving a small tin box with the universally recognized red cross emblazoned across its lid. One of the proton packs hung on his right shoulder, dangling by its leather strap. "Not much in the first aid kit," he said, allowing the pack to drop to the ground and passing across the tin. "Gauze and tape is about all."  
  
"Disinfectant?" Winston asked, rummaging inside with his free hand.  
  
"For all the good it's going to do." That was Peter, still shaken but rapidly regaining his balance. "The strip is inside the wound; no way we're gonna be able to disinfect that." Ray moaned softly and Peter patted his shoulder. "You're doing fine, kid," he said encouragingly. "Just hang on."  
  
Zeddemore slid a wad of thick gauze between his hand and the wound, immediately clamping down again. Ray whimpered but said nothing. Egon watched impassively some moments, then wearily forced himself to his feet, leaving the pack where it lay. "I'd better check the radio," he said, carefully easing his broken arm into a more comfortable position across his chest. "Ray's only chance is for us to radio help."  
  
"Save it." Winston raised his dark eyes, reluctantly meeting Egon's blue. "Radio was the first thing I checked out after the crew; it's deader than they are."  
  
Egon sighed. "More bad news," he added grimly. "I peeked into the baggage compartment while I was looking for the first aid kit"  
  
"The proton packs?" Peter asked, sparing the one at Egon's feet a worried glance.  
  
Spengler shook his head. "The ghost trap. Either the lightning or the shock of impact breached the unit. The Class 8 escaped."  
  
Peter's shoulders slumped. "Great. So, not only are we stranded in the middle of a storm," he gestured with his right hand to the damaged access door from which wafted a fine chill mist from the dying storm without, "we've got a wounded buddy and a nasty Class 8 after us." He glared in the physicist's direction, though there was more depression than anger in his look. "Got anything else you want to break to us, O Bearer of Glad Tidings?"  
  
Egon shrugged. "That isn't enough?"  
  
"Oh, it's enough," the other shot back, "I just don't believe it's going to be all."  
  
"It issssss not."  
  
All four men started at the half-heard / half-sensed voice which rumbled unpleasantly in the close confines of the cabin. Peter released Ray's hand and made a wild dive for the accelerator pack, snagging the barrel with one hand and snapping the power on with the other. "You might as well give it up, Naggaoth," he said harshly, attempting to cover all points of the cabin at once. "You don't have any better chance now than you did the first time we trashed you."  
  
Egon moved fast, lunging for the rear compartment of the plane where the other three packs were stored. He was halfway down the aisle when a slimy, scaled hand reached up through the fuselage and snagged his ankle. A single yank and Egon was down, crying out when his arm smacked the floor. His glasses went flying from his nose to disappear under a seat.  
  
"Not so fasssst, fleshhead, the voice commanded with distinctly mocking note. "Do you think meee so foolish asss to let you reach your weaponssss?"  
  
"Frankly, slimehead, yes!" Peter loosed a stream of energy, playing it carefully across the arm attached to the restraining hand.  
  
Naggaoth snarled, more annoyed than hurt by Peter's low-power attack. "You'll paaaaay for that!" the thought/voice swore as the self-proclaimed Lord of Decay tightened its hold. The physicist howled as the pressure increased, the bones in his ankle crackling ominously. "I will maaake you pay...."  
  
Peter fired again, closer to the scaled fingers, and Naggaoth growled loudly and withdrew his hand. Egon groaned and sat up. He reached for his slime-coated ankle, then stopped, instead forcing himself to his feet and stumbling his way towards the luggage compartment. Peter ceased fire and returned to crouch in a protective stance at Ray's side. "No way we're gonna be able to retrap Naggaoth with only one pack," he whispered to Winston as an aside. "And if he traps Egon in the back...."  
  
"G-go help him out Pete." Ray grabbed for Peter's knee, worry banishing some of the pain from his voice. "Egon's hurt. He needs you." He tried again, seeing the automatic refusal in the other's eyes. "If Egon doesn't make it back with those packs, Naggaoth will kill all of us."  
  
Venkman hesitated. obviously torn between the desire to go and the equally strong one to stay. Finally, Ray's logic won out and he rose. "I'll be back," he promised, starting off. He jumped across a tumbled seat, then dodged around the small serving table the stewardess would no longer need. He dove through the connecting door an instant after hearing the choked yell only barely identifiable as Egon's bass.  
  
Winston started up at that same yell, then forcibly settled himself back down, his palm still firmly pressed against the wound in Ray's side. Stantz waited until Peter had disappeared before tapping his black partner on the arm. "Go after him, Winston," he said, his expression as firm as his voice. "I'm fine."  
  
Zeddemore shook his head. "No way, Ray. I'm not letting you lose any more of this red stuff than you can help." He smiled at Ray's concerned expression and used his free hand to pat the younger man's shoulder. "Don't worry, there's not much that those two can't handle between them. You just relax."  
  
"But...."  
  
"I claim your livesss as wellll." Once more the words proceeded the entity known as Naggaoth by mere seconds. A great form rose from the deck, as covered with scales and slime as was the hand which had nearly broken Egon's foot. Starting at over six feet in height, it swelled and faded in rough rhythm until it blocked the entire aisle.  
  
"Oh, no," Winston breathed, releasing his grip on Ray to position himself between the creature and his friend. "Peter?" The name emerged as a squeak at first. Winston cleared his throat and roared, "PEEEETER!"  
  
Naggaoth cocked his head, staring down at the wounded Ray with interest. Ray, no longer held down by Winston, retreated back against the wall, his own hand pressed to his side, "Blood," Naggaoth smiled, saliva dripping from his revealed six-inch fangs. "It wasss you who usse human trap. Naggaoth will enjoy feasting on your blood." He took a step closer, and Winston attacked, throwing himself bodily at the nether-lord and striking out at the leathery face.  
  
"Not a chance. Jack," the ex-soldier bellowed, slamming his balled fist into Naggaoth's reptile-like snout. "Only thing you're feasting on is my knuckles!"  
  
Taken off-guard by 190 pounds of outraged Ghostbuster, Naggaoth stumbled back, but the Lord of Decay recovered instantly and swept Winston aside as though he were no more than an irritating insect. "Naggaoth takes you firsssst," he snarled, snagging Winston by the lapel and giving him a shake. "Your fn'en'sss blood will tassste twice asss sweet as a desssssert."  
  
"Uh-unh, bunky," came Peter's hard voice from behind. "Not today!" He opened up, Egon's fire joining his as an almost single stream of blazing light. Naggaoth dropped Winston, who slid down the wall and crawled to the side, out of range of the impressive display of power which was increased as soon as he was clear.  
  
"More power!" Egon yelled, pouring it on. "We need-." Naggaoth roared once and then vanished.  
  
"Blast!" Peter depowered instantly but did not restow his thrower. "He got away!"  
  
"This time," Egon agreed grimly. "But we can rest assured that he'll be back." He dropped down onto all fours and began a methodical search of the still-intact seats, emerging from beneath the farthest one with his glasses. "Thank goodness," he muttered, perching them back onto his nose, "I would've been in real trouble if these had broken."  
  
"Don*t know what you call what we're in now," Peter retorted, carefully looking around. "Where's that PKE meter you're supposedly never without?"  
  
Egon patted his pockets, finally locating it by its distinctive bulk. "Right here. Good thing I stowed it before the crash." He withdrew the instrument from its protective pouch and turned it on, pointing it to the four compass points and studying the results.  
  
"No sign of Naggaoth," he reported at last, a frown etching a furrow between his blond brows, "but I am picking up a very strange reading originating... about a hundred feet in... that direction." He jerked his thumb toward the rear starboard side of the plane, never taking his eye off of the meter. "No information on it and I've never seen readings like these before."  
  
"What.. class?" Ray asked from his own corner.  
  
Peter knelt again by his side and placed a tight hand on the younger man's arm. "How you holding up?" he asked, studying Ray's chalk white face carefully.  
  
Ray shrugged. "I'm fine. Really," he added at Peter's sharp look.  
  
Peter smiled. "Sure you are. Winston, get yourself a pack and get back here. We're going to have to be ready if Naggaoth decides on a return engagement"  
  
The black man nodded and vanished, returning within minutes, strapping the heavy pack around his waist. "I think I'm going to have to go for help," he decided, patting the web belt "That storm has died down for now but it could start up again any minute -- not to mention the fact that it's getting pretty cold. No one's even going to miss us for another four hours."  
  
"And Naggaoth is certain to make another run on us by then," Peter sighed. "See? I was right -- it could only get worse."  
  
"The day ain't over yet, Pete," Winston said, starting for the door.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Sam slipped past a solid wall of interlocking pine branches, the final barrier between him and the clearing in which the small plane had crashed. He brushed aside some of the steady moisture that dripped from the sky into his upturned face, and paused to catch his breath. "Good... thing the pilot... found a clearing," he panted, leaning against a nearby trunk. "The fuselage looks relatively intact; there may still be survivors.... Hey! What was that flash?" He raised his eyes, examining the gray skies suspiciously. "Not more lighting?"  
  
"If it is, it's weird lighting," Al returned, peering curiously around the clearing. "That flash came from inside the plane. C'mon Sam," Al prodded, dancing his frustration between and through two trees. "This may be why you're here -- to save those people's lives."  
  
Sam, knowing from long association the futility of arguing, set off again, covering the remaining thirty yards at a fast trot "Hello!" he called, having to circle the plane before coming into sight of the wrecked hatch. "Anyone in there?"  
  
"That's kind of a stupid question, Sam," Al chided, sticking his holographic head through the fuselage. "Where else would they.... Ah-HA! They're in here, Sam! And... they're armed."  
  
Beckett clambered up onto one intact wing, using it as a springboard to step easily through the gaping hatch. Three unfamiliar-looking weapons swiveled in his direction, following the movement of three widely dissimilar heads, each wearing identical expressions of surprise and open menace. He froze until the barrels were lowered and the menace had transmuted into wary relief. "Thank god you found us," a tall blond greeted, rising to his feet and extending a hand. "Did you see the plane come down?"  
  
"Are we near any towns?" a powerful negro interjected, searching Sam's face intently. "Can you locate medical attention for us?"  
  
"And most important," a third added whimsically, "where did you get that hat? And is it an original?"  
  
Sam gaped stupidly at the slender, brown-haired man for several seconds before realizing the tension that droll statement concealed. He shook himself mentally and accepted the blond's hand. "I'm..."  
  
"Harry Bauer," Al supplied, rising through the floor of the plane and looking around.  
  
"...Harry Bauer," Sam parroted, pumping the large-boned hand once before releasing it "And you are...?  
  
"Dr. Egon Spengler," the blond returned quickly. Sam barely hid a start at the name of one of the most eminent -- if unconventional -- physicists in the country. Spengler gestured briefly towards the brown-haired man, "Dr. Peter Venkman...."  
  
"Ah-HA!" Al crowed, punching information into his handlink like mad.  
  
"And I'm Winston Zeddemore." The negro waved his free hand once, his dark eyes taking in Sam's appearance with evident disapproval before turning away and patting a previously unnoticed form at his feet "This is Ray Stantz. He got a little battered in the touchdown."  
  
Sam stepped closer, frowning slightly when the three stiffened, Egon actually moving to the left in an interceptory position. "Let me take a look," Sam offered, stepping around Egon to kneel at Peter's side. Venkman didn't budge, his eyes never leaving Sam's face -- Harry's face, Sam kept reminding himself -- and his fingers remained firmly locked around those of the auburn-haired, somewhat younger man who lay full-length on the cabin floor, soaked through with his own blood.  
  
Pain-dazed brown eyes cracked open to stare into Sam's own with something akin to recognition. "Know... you?" The question was a tattered croak, which Sam had to bend closer to hear.  
  
"No," he answered, patting the black man's arm once in signal. "You couldn't possibly know me." Winston released his hold, allowing a fresh surge of blood from the wound to trickle down the young man's bare skin, then immediately replacing his hold as firmly as before.  
  
"But you know them, Sam," Al piped up from a position almost directly overhead.  
  
"One," Sam corrected under his breath.  
  
"All." Al recalibrated his presence until he was eye-to-eye with his puzzled friend. "You met Egon Spengler during that lecture you did at M.IT., remember? Physicist?" Sam dipped his head in a casual gesture that only the most suspicious would have taken as a nod. "The rest of them were on the cover of every paper, magazine and tabloid in the world for almost five years. Winston Zeddemore, Dr. Egon Spengler, Dr. Ray Stantz and, of course, the pretty guy there." He jerked his thumb at Peter, who, with his smudged face and stony expression, was looking anything but at the moment. "Once top research psychologist Dr. Peter Venkman. Sam, these are the Ghostbusters!"  
  
Ray turned his head, tilling it in a listening attitude. "Who ... said that?" he asked, searching the air in Al's general direction. "Is... there...?"  
  
"Uh-oh, Sam," Al said softly, "I think he can hear me. That's a bad sign; remember Maggie? She could see me, too, but only when she was dying."  
  
"Take it easy, pal," Peter soothed, holding his friend's hand tight enough to cut off the circulation. "We lucked out with some help. I think," he added, with another hard look at Beckett.  
  
Sam wondered briefly what it was about his new appearance that engendered such immediate dislike in these men. Granted he hadn't had much of an opportunity to examine his face closely, but there had to be something.... The thought was gone as quickly as it had arrived with the memory of the black, marble-hard eyes which had stared back at him from the dusty mirror. Then that thought, too, was gone. "I'm a doctor," he explained, tapping Winston's arm again. "Let me...."  
  
"No offense, man," the dark haired Venkman returned coolly, "but you don't exactly look like a doctor to me."  
  
"They sure don't trust you, Sam," Al remarked with some amusement. "And considering how you look this time, I don't blame them a bit."  
  
"Do you have a telephone?" Spengler put in, maneuvering himself to hover protectively at Winston's shoulder. "If we can call for an ambulance...."  
  
Sam considered. "You'd better not leave your friend here," he remarked, glancing from the battered hatch to the condensation already forming on the rapidly-cooling interior surfaces. He laid a hand lightly across Peter's, insinuating his fingers between the psychologist's until he could touch Ray's cold flesh. "He's going into shock," he said, forcing himself to ignore the emerald fire which rose in Peter's eyes at the liberty. "There's a cabin about a half a mile from here." He pursed his lips at the distrustful looks on the opposing three. "It's warm and dry; if nothing else, he won't die of exposure before help arrives. Besides, I smell jet fuel."  
  
Spengler exchanged an inquiring look with Zeddemore, who sniffed the air suspiciously, then nodded. "Get some blankets from the overheads, Egon," the black man ordered. "Pete, see if you can find anything we can use as a stretcher."  
  
Peter paused to tap Ray lightly on the head, smiling gently when the bleary gaze again focused on him. "We're gonna go bye-bye in a few minutes," he said gaily. "Need you to be tough again, pal."  
  
Ray forced a weak smile and Sam (both the physician and the man) felt a touch of satisfaction at the closeness of their relationship -- at the trust evident in Ray's brown eyes and the gentleness muting the stern lines around Peter's mouth. That would stand the young man well against what he was going to have to endure before the day was out. Sam smiled himself as he rose, seeking his own friend, who was watching Sam just as intently if far more soberly.  
  
"More news," Calavicci said, paying no heed when Egon stepped through his chest on the way back to his friends. "Ziggy found numerous reports of this crash in papers all over the country."  
  
"Ray?" Sam whispered, alarmed by the other's grim mien.  
  
Al shrugged. "The Ghostbusters never found the cabin; obviously, Bauer never made the hike out here when the plane went down. Rescuers did find it afterward -- stripped and empty. They arrived only after Zeddemore hiked 15 miles through an unexpected snow storm, ending up on one or the other of the major highways circling the mountain. By the time medics were transported in...." He paused, shaking his head. "The boy died, Sam. Never had a chance."  
  
Sam turned, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the trio clustered around their fallen comrade, Venkman was talking softly to Ray, his words only half heard, but the tone soothing and full of encouragement and pleasantries. Ray was staring up at him as he'd done ever since Sam had boarded the plane, his vision never wavering from whatever strength he found in Venkman's taut face.  
  
A little apart, Egon was busily assembling a collapsible stretcher, while Winston, firm as granite, maintained his pressure on Ray's wound, his shoulders tight but his face confident and strong.  
  
Sam shook his head. "That's not going to happen this time, Al," he whispered firmly. "We can use the radio to call for paramedics and helicopter transport. Besides, I'm a surgeon; with medical help immediately available he should at least make it through until we can get him to a hospital. Barring serious infection he should be fine."  
  
"If you can get them to trust you long enough to get close." Al silenced him by wagging his chewed stogie under Sam's nose. Sam automatically retreated several inches. "In case you haven't noticed, these guys aren't exactly dancing a jig to see you."  
  
Beckett frowned. "I noticed. I know I'm not exactly Miss America, but I am only trying to help."  
  
"You know that and I know that," the older man returned equably, "but they can't tell that from looking at you."  
  
He broke off to watch interestedly as Egon finished assembling the stretcher and spread it out on the floor ready for its passenger, then maintained his silence while the three members of the ghostbusting team carefully lifted their fourth onto the thick canvas pad. Blood appeared at the comer of Ray's mouth where he'd bitten his lip through, but he didn't cry out, and this caused Al to nod approvingly. "Kid's tougher than he looks," he muttered, before turning back to his own partner. "Ziggy thinks he knows why you're giving everyone the instant willies just by walking into the room."  
  
"Well?" Sam hissed, leaping lightly out of the hatch and landing with a squish in the wet earth.  
  
Al stepped out after him, floating rather than falling the four feet to the ground. "Think about it, Sam," Calavicci urged. "These guys aren't seeing you, they're seeing...."  
  
"An illusion of Harry's physical aura," Sam quoted. "So?"  
  
"So I was talking to this guy Harry in the waiting room while we were getting a fix on the plane." He shrugged. "It took about fifteen minutes for me, less than a minute for you."  
  
""Go on."  
  
Al took another long pull on his cigar, exhaling the smoke with a contented puff. "The guy's a real sleaze, Sam, hard, nasty -- nothing you'd want to trust your kids around, if you catch my drift"  
  
"But I'm not--" Sam began.  
  
Al tapped him on the chest with an insubstantial forefinger. "Ziggy thinks that this Bauer creep is so rotten that his aura is projecting that evil right along with his appearance. These guys aren't just seeing our buddy Harry, they're sensing him as well. And they don*t like what they're picking up."  
  
Beckett considered this seriously. "Makes sense, But with their friend's life at stake, they're going to have to let me help him." He moved out of the way as Peter appeared in the hatchway and began his own, more weary descent Al moved to join Sam at the wing tip.  
  
"I hope you're right, Sam," he muttered. "'Cause I got a feeling that this leap could go from bad enough to worse in jig time."  
  
***  
  
The trip back to the cabin took far longer than Sam's original walk to the plane. Beckett took his place at the foot of the stretcher, his youthful strength bringing puzzled frowns to the faces of the Ghostbusters. They didn't remark on it, however, simply accepted his help and rearranged themselves accordingly around the injured man. This left Egon to trail the group by several steps, his own injured arm now resting in the new sling and splint that Winston had insisted on making for him before leaving the plane. Zeddemore took the poles at Ray's head, ceding his place at the young man's side to Peter, who walked slowly along, maintaining the necessary pressure on the sluggishly bleeding wound. Al vanished almost at once, presumably to recheck Ziggy for updated data.  
  
Stantz had grown progressively less lucid over the course of the trip although not losing consciousness. By the time they'd reached the deceptively primitive cabin, the first signs of shock were already in place. His breathing was coming faster than before, and the look he stubbornly kept in Peter's direction was glassy and barren of all but the merest hint of recognition.  
  
The bearers deposited him on the hard cot, not bothering to slip the canvas stretcher from beneath him before burying the man in a heap of dry blankets from the foot of the bed. Egon removed his friend's boots, while Winston made a bee-line for the radio, still sitting serenely against the wall. "Mayday!" he rapped, adjusting the frequency to 121.5. "Mayday. Air rescue, please respond. Over." No answer. He waited a full fifteen seconds before trying again. "Mayday! Mayday! Air Rescue, is anyone there? Over."  
  
"Air Rescue," a man's voice replied, eliciting loud cheers from Peter. "We copy your signal. Identify yourself. Over."  
  
Winston smiled broadly. "This is Winston Zeddemore, one of the Ghostbusters. Our plane has gone down about two hours out of Bangor, Maine. Pilot and crew are dead, one of our number is badly hurt. Need assistance. Over."  
  
"Roger that, Mr. Zeddemore," the unnamed man returned immediately. "We will initiate rescue procedures immediately. Do you have a more precise location?"  
  
Winston glanced at Sam, who shrugged. "Some valley about forty miles from the New Hampshire boarder," the latter told him. "I'm not sure what it's called." Winston repeated the information.  
  
"Roger." A low muttering could be heard while the Air Rescue operator consulted with someone off-mike. "We're not picking up a transponder signal from your downed plane; any idea why? Over."  
  
Winston shook his head, then, realizing the other couldn't see him, said, "Nose was smashed up pretty good. Possibly that."  
  
Again that off-air muttering. "Leave your mike open," the other said after several seconds. "We'll attempt to trace you through that"  
  
Winston cast a glance over his shoulder at Ray, who was lying nearly motionless, his face creased with pain. "Hurry," he begged over a suddenly dry throat. "We need medical attention bad."  
  
"Roger. We'll be in touch. Out" The mike went dead except for some background static denoting a still open frequency.  
  
Winston turned back to his friends. "All we can do now, " he announced soberly, "is to wait for them to find us. It shouldn't be too long?" This last was a question rather than a statement, and Sam treated it as such.  
  
"Longer than you might think," he said sadly. "There's a snow storm coming that could delay rescue for... until it's too late." He gestured at Ray, his meaning more than clear. "You'd better let me take a look at that wound. I might be able to help."  
  
Peter considered this for a long minute, rubbing his lean jaw, his green eyes sizing up Sam's appearance as though he were examining an amoeba under a microscope. Sam straightened his shoulders in an effort to not squirm, and finally the brown haired psychologist nodded. "All right. Take a look," he agreed, emphasizing the last word.  
  
"I'm going to look around for another medical kit," Winston stated, purposely neglecting to inquire of Sam if there was one in the cabin. He left his seat at the radio to prowl the room, beginning with the bolted door to his left. A moment later and light washed into the living room from the harsh fluorescents of the lab. Winston disappeared inside.  
  
Sam took his place at the bedside, carefully tugging away the torn black t- shirt. "What happened here?" he asked curiously, touching the large bruise on Ray*s right shoulder.  
  
Peter, intently watching Sam*s every move, leaned closer. "That must have been where he first hit. We were so busy taking care of his side-.." He broke off, shooting Sam a worried look. "Do you think the bone is broken?"  
  
Sam probed gently at the affected area, "Hard to tell; might be cracked but I can't feel any jagged edges under the skin. He should have it X-rayed as soon as possible." "He should have a lot of things done as soon as possible," the psychologist retorted shortly.  
  
Sam nodded, then proceeded with his gentle examination. He lifted off the bloody bandage surrounding the spike of metal, the action forcing a soft moan from between Ray's clenched teeth. Sam patted him absently on the shoulder, "I'm sorry. I need to see how bad it is."  
  
Ray closed his eyes. "P-Peter?"  
  
"Right here, buddy," Venkman soothed, laying his hand on Ray's forehead. "Hang on." Ray nodded and said no more.  
  
Sam's examination was over quickly, a few deft touches confirming what he already knew. "He's bleeding internally; if that strip penetrated the peritoneal wall, he could be developing a case of peritonitis on top of the blood loss."  
  
"We used what antiseptic there was," Egon explained from his position at the outer door.  
  
Sam shook his head. "He's going to need full battery antibiotics and immediate surgery. Notice how shock is becoming pronounced?"  
  
"So, like, what do you suggest?" Peter asked, his worry not muting his expression of open distrust.  
  
Sam considered. "Surgery. If I can stop the internal bleeding, we'll be able to combat the shock until help arrives. Then his only danger will be infection; we'll need a hospital for that, but this should give your friend a fighting chance until then."  
  
"Good pitch, Sam," Al remarked from behind Sam's back. "If you can keep that kid alive until help comes, you should be able to leap out of here and Ziggy can relax."  
  
"There's one thing more," Egon put in, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs in an attitude of nonchalance. He wrinkled his nose at the foul stench exuded by his still-slimy boot. "We still have Naggaoth to consider. What if he decides to attack us while you're operating?"  
  
"Who's Naggaoth?" Sam asked, getting to his feet.  
  
"Phew! He got you good, didn't he?" Peter put in. He snorted his disgust, adding to Sam, "Provided we let you operate."  
  
"Which we aren't." That was Zeddemore returning from the second room; his face was grim and his particle rifle was slung casually from one dark hand with the barrel more-than incidentally pointing in Sam's direction. "Egon, take a look at this room."  
  
The blond physicist uncrossed his legs and rose, disappearing through the doorway for some minutes. He returned at last after having made a brief circuit of the other room. "It's a lab," he said, emerging to stare curiously at Sam. "Looks like production rather than research. What are you working on?"  
  
At a loss, Sam said nothing and it was left for the stone-faced Winston to answer. "Drugs." The black Ghostbuster closed and rebolted the heavy wood door, though not taking his eyes off of Sam, then sank back down into the radio operator's chair. "Ether, alcohol, cocaine, meth.... It's all back there arranged on nice neat little shelves and labeled with scientific precision." He bared his teeth in Sam's direction, but it was his partners he addressed. "This is a drug lab -- refinement, modification, production, crack or ice I think, I can't tell."  
  
"You low level slime," Peter bit out, his contempt plain in both face and voice. "No wonder you wanted to work on Ray so bad -- one less witness, right? Then what? Take out the rest of us while we're burying him?"  
  
Sam raised his hands helplessly. "I wouldn't...."  
  
"Save it" The green eyes gleaming coldly in the lamplight. Peter waved to a hard chair at the little dining table. "Sit down," he ordered. "Over there away from Ray."  
  
Sam started forward desperately, coming up short when two proton rifles centered on his chest "I'm telling you, help isn't going to make it in time to do your friend any good! The storm is coming back - a snow storm, this time."  
  
Winston snorted. "The pilot told me we were passing through a local squall. I'm sure it's moved on by now"  
  
Sam dropped wearily into the indicated chair, slumping forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "How can I convince you?" he asked pleadingly. "Your friend is going to die before help arrives."  
  
"Or sooner if we let you touch him," Winston snorted.  
  
"No, I mean it. Sam fixed Venkman with a direct look. "Check for yourself; feel around the wound with your fingers. Does the skin feel rigid? Different from the rest of his abdomen?"  
  
Peter bit his lip then, apparently deciding there was no harm to be done by this, obeyed. He ran his fingers around the purple skin, then extended his examination to the surrounding tissue. "Yeee-es," he decided at last "It does feel... strange."  
  
Sam nodded. "As I told you, he's bleeding internally, and it's obvious he's already in shock. If that bleeding isn't stopped soon, it's going to be too late."  
  
"We've been maintaining pressure on the wound," Spengler protested rationally. "That should slow things up long enough for Air Rescue to arrive."  
  
"You hope," Al grated, swinging around to peer at Ray for himself.  
  
"That's a better chance than we have by trusting you," Venkman added, unknowingly answering Al's taunt. He replaced the blankets, drawing them up over Ray's chest. Stantz lay quietly, eyes closed, and seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. "Ray?"  
  
Stantz stirred weakly. "Hmmm?"  
  
Peter again lay a hand on the younger man's forehead, brushing once to dislodge a strand of fine auburn hair which clung there. He then extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over the soaked gauze covering the bleeding wound, and pressed the palm of his hand against it. Ray cried out again, more weakly then before, and Peter winced. "How you doing, kid?" he asked gently. "Think you'll make it for awhile longer yet?"  
  
Brown eyes slitted open briefly before shutting again, a sigh the only answer to Peter's question.  
  
Winston spun his chair until he was refacing the radio. "I'm going to try Air Rescue again," he decided, picking up the mike. "They may have an ETA for us by now." He flicked several switches, increasing the signal as high as it would go. "Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Come in Air Rescue. Over."  
  
There was no reply and, frowning, Winston tried again. "Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Is anyone there?" He toggled several switches, but the mike remained stubbornly silent. "Hello? Is anyone...?"  
  
"I'm here," a horribly familiar voice hissed through the open receiver.  
  
Without warning, a scaly, taloned hand emerged through the front of the set, making a snatch for Winston's throat. The black Ghostbuster dropped the microphone and reeled back, grabbing for his particle thrower. "Naggaoth!"  
  
"Yessss." A slime covered, noisome head followed the hand, pausing only long enough to chuckle. "There will be no help for you this day" before the radio exploded, the concussion throwing Zeddemore bodily to the ground. Melted and twisted plastic showered the room, spattering the walls and windows with dangerous if non-lethal force. When the gale had cleared, Naggaoth was once again gone.  
  
"That gooper is getting annoying," Peter growled with far more calm than his expression indicated. He straightened from the protective crouch he'd assumed over Ray, his fingers automatically seeking the cold hand of his friend. "You okay, Ray?" The young occultist/ engineer nodded slightly without opening his eyes. Peter sighed. "I get the feeling this isn't going to be one of our better days," he groaned, using the time while the others regained their feet to reseat himself on the edge of the bed.  
  
"A... a ghost?" Al, too, had instinctively ducked when the radio blew. Now he nervously withdrew to the middle of the floor, peering at the ruined radio from a distance of ten feet. "Sam, did you hear that? That was a-"  
  
"A ghost?" Beckett finished aloud. He looked from Egon to a furiously glaring Peter Venkman. "That was a..?"  
  
'Ghost, Spengler repeated, quartering the room with long-limbed steps. "A dangerous Class 8 nether-entity named Naggaoth."  
  
"Who wants us dead in the worst way," Peter concluded wearily, rechecking Ray's bandage. "Man, it*s never easy, is it?"  
  
"No problem, Pete," Zeddemore answered, picking himself up off the floor and dabbing at a bloody cut on his right cheek. "All we have to do now is wait for a rescue team to find us. We can hold out until then."  
  
"Uh-oh.  
  
Zeddemore's eyes swiveled in Sam's direction on hearing that reluctant exclamation, and even Egon ceased his search of the room to stare at the in- disguise quantum physicist. "What's that supposed to mean?" the former demanded, closing the distance between them.  
  
Sam offered him an apologetic shrug. "Look out the window," he invited. "That snow storm is already kicking in." He visibly braced himself, not retreating from the other's distasteful glare. "It could be hours before they get here. And with night falling...."  
  
"It's only four o'clock," Spengler pointed out calmly, reclipping his thrower and removing the PKE meter from his breast pocket.  
  
"Sundown is at 5:41 this time of year," Al supplied, pacing agitatedly in a circle.  
  
"Sundown is at 5:41 this time of year," Sam repeated, thanking his friend with a surreptitious glance. "There's no way they're going to locate the plane and get help in here any time soon. You're going to have to let me take care of your friend. As a doctor...."  
  
Egon, still standing directly before Beckett, idly pointed his PKE meter at the time traveler. It uttered a loud 'beep!' and began to flash, the needle fluctuating wildly. Egon studied it for several seconds, then waved it around the room. It squawked again and flashed red. "He's hot, gentlemen," the blond proclaimed calmly. "Variables in the plus-4 range." Two particle rifles leveled in Sam's general direction. "He-he's the one from the plane," Ray's soft voice interjected from the side. "Him and... the other."  
  
"Other?" Venkman threw his friend a puzzled look, then released the pressure on Ray's side and wiped his bloody hand on his coverall. "Point the 'other' out, Ray," he urged, bracing his rifle in both hands.  
  
Stantz blinked rapidly, then raised his hand to gesture at the spot Al Calavicci's holographic image was presently occupying. "Right there." Peter followed his pointing finger, aimed and fired.  
  
"Al!" Sam yelled as the energy stream fried the air precisely where Calavicci had been a fraction of a second before. Reflexes honed by forty years of military training, Al was no longer there. An automatic push of a button and the imaging chamber door closed, leaving Sam to face three hard men alone.  
  
"So your pet gooper has a name," Peter remarked, his attention torn between Sam and the rest of the room. "Hey, Ray, you see that 'other' person still?"  
  
Stantz raised his head and looked around, then dropped limply back to the cot, his hand automatically going to his side. "No."  
  
"Who is Al?" Spengler asked, again consulting his PKE motor.  
  
Sam lifted both shoulders in an impotent gesture. "I doubt you'd believe me if I told you."  
  
"I doubt it, too," Peter growled nastily. "Winston, see if you can find some rope. I don't want our little dogie doing any roaming until help comes."  
  
*** 


	4. Chapter 4

An hour passed during which Sam tensed and tested the new bonds which tied his hand behind his back. There was some slight give in the old rope, though he could do little more than try the strands one by one, hoping for a weakness. Winston, Peter and Egon settled themselves around the room, weapons at ready, faces drawn and introspective. The room was quiet until.... "Pssst. Hey, Sam?"  
  
Sam risked a quick look at the gathered men, forcibly keeping his voice so low that only Al's neurologically enhanced contact could hear him at all. "Careful. I don*t know what those rifles are, but they might be able to hurt even you."  
  
"Don't worry, Sam," the other returned evenly. "I'm on it -- got an instant cutoff switch wired into the handlink. Ziggy can terminate all contact before the first one of them can flick a switch." He strolled through the wall, returning after a couple of seconds. "Snow, eh? That storm you predicted hit right on schedule. Bet that gave 'cm something to think about."  
  
Sam nodded, but his face was still creased with worry. "Even with the snow storm they're not going to let me help. Their friend is going to die while I sit here tied up like a wild animal."  
  
"It's worse than that." Al pulled another of his ever-present cigars from his coat pocket and stuck it into his mouth, then searched vainly through each of his pockets, "Hey, Sam, got a match?" Sam had actually made an attempt to comply before this request sank in. He glared. ''Ooops, sorry. I forgot" Al smiled apologetically and seated himself on something outside of Sam's view, his smile fading away as though it'd never been. "About that bad news, Sam...."  
  
Beckett tensed as Al lifted the flashing computer link and studied its glowing display with far more soberness than he'd hitherto displayed. "According to Ziggy, there may be some serious ramifications for us to deal with if this Stantz dies."  
  
"Ramifications?" Sam repeated, giving his bonds a final tug.  
  
"Yeah." The Admiral crossed his ankles comfortably but there was no lessening of the tension in his silver-clad shoulders. "According to the newspapers, the Ghostbusters broke up about a month after the kid's funeral. Spengler joined some uncle of his in a bio lab in Cleveland and Venkman took a teaching job in Princeton. Can't find Zeddemore yet, but we think he rejoined his father in the construction business. We're still checking."  
  
"So they broke up," Sam breathed, eying his friend puzzledly. "How does that affect us?"  
  
Al chewed his cigar for a full minute before sighing and rising to pace the room. "Either Ziggy's being real mysterious, again," he began, "or he really doesn't know. But..."  
  
"But?" Sam prodded.  
  
"But" Al took up a stance directly in front of the puzzled and now thoroughly alarmed quantum physicist, staring at him grimly. "All Ziggy can tell us is that, two years from now -- uh, my now... the present -- our present, that is - if there is no Ghostbusters team..." He paused. "The world ends."  
  
Sam blinked. "The... the what?  
  
Calavicci nodded. "You heard me right, Sam. The world ends. How or why..." He shrugged. "Whatever, Ziggy doesn't know, only that there's a..." He consulted his instrument again. "...94.6 per cent chance that no one survives the year 1998 if these guys disband."  
  
"Oh, my gosh!" The soft voice and weak exclamation belonged to Ray Stantz. Both Sam and Al swung, startled, in his direction. "The end of... the world? Really?"  
  
Peter roused himself from his contemplation of the ruined radio to pat the younger man's arm with his free hand. "Take it easy, Ray," he soothed, exchanging a look with Spengler, who was seated in a hard-backed chair near the stove. "Are you in pain?" He grimaced. "Sorry. Stupid question."  
  
Ray ignored it, his fingers seeking and wrapping around Peter's wrist in return. "He said... world... end without our help," he said, between shallow breaths. "He said... we're going to break up... that you're... After I'm... dead."  
  
Peter shifted a green-eyed glare at Sam. "Oh, is that what he said?" he purred dangerously.  
  
"Uh-oh," Al muttered, raising his comlink again. "Maybe I should...."  
  
"No. No, please!" Stantz raised his head, fixing Al with a pleading look. "Don't go. Tell me... what you... meant"  
  
Peter again released the pressure on Ray's side to unclip his particle rifle, aiming it at Sam. "Get rid of your 'friend,'" he growled, powering up. Ray stopped him with a frantic gesture. "D-don't, Pete," he begged between harsh breaths. "I... he was saying...."  
  
Venkman's jaw tightened; he freed his wrist gently but held his fire. "Is it this Al again?"  
  
Ray nodded. "Yes. He said... the end...." His head dropped weakly back to the mattress, and he shut his eyes again. "The end... of the... world."  
  
Spengler turned his PKE meter in Sam's direction. It chattered busily to itself for some seconds, then he redirected it, following Ray's line of sight The noise dropped to a nearly inaudible level. "Whatever it is," he reported, "its originating source is Mr. Bauer." He cocked a blond brow at Peter. "Projecting telepath?" he guessed,  
  
Peter shrugged. "Ray?" He shook the young occultist gently. "Ray, we need you a minute, kid. Open your eyes." Stantz stirred, but he obeyed Peter's prompt and cracked his eyes open. "Good boy." Venkman smiled, though with his lips only. "Can you still see Al?" But Al Calavicci was behind Peter now. Ray shook his head, sighed again and closed his eyes.  
  
Venkman wrapped his fingers around Ray's wrist. "He's alive," he reported. "And... cold. I think he's getting worse."  
  
"Put a pillow under his knees," Sam ordered in his best I'm-the-medical- expert voice. "That'll help his blood management at least"  
  
Al consulted his comlink. "You'd better do a lot better than that," he said. "According to Ziggy, the kid still dies and the world stilL." He dropped the instrument to his side as though it were distasteful, ".-you know what"  
  
"But how?! How can I help? They don't trust me at all," Abandoning all attempts to keep Al's presence secret, Sam spoke directly, to the Ghostbusters appearing as though he were addressing the empty air.  
  
Egon's jaw tightened, again he pointed his PKE meter at Sam. It continued to flash and whir softly. He then pointed it in the direction of Sam's invisible co-conversant and the lights and sound abruptly died. "Still only Mr. Bauer's mid-level esper registering," he reported.  
  
Zeddemore pursed his lips. "No one else?"  
  
"No. I'm inclined to believe this Al is either a mental construct or...." He hesitated and it was Peter who finished the statement.  
  
"Or a figment of Ray's imagination that Bauer is using to get over on us." He shifted his gaze from the blond to the window, where the snow could be seen falling more heavily than before. "He didn't lie about the snow storm; the rescue team is going to have a hard time finding us in this."  
  
"And that boy isn't going to last another couple of hours," Al added sadly. "Shame." He wandered the cabin for some minutes, pausing to glare occasionally at Peter or Winston as he passed them. "Sam, if we don't think of something soon it's going to be too late. Try lying to them."  
  
Sam glared, then twitched his shoulders, the best he could manage in the way of a shrug with his hands tied behind his back. "My name really isn't Harry Bauer," he began, trying out a smile. "It's Beckett -- Sam Beckett."  
  
"I said lie," Al moaned, throwing up his hands in disgust. "Boy scouts...." The rest degenerated into an unintelligible muttering that Sam studiously ignored.  
  
Spengler stood, his face impassive, and approached Sam to study him thoroughly. "Very good try," he said. "Obviously, you recognized who we were... or is it only who I am?" He twitched a blond brow in Sam's direction. "As a scientist, I would, of course, be aware of Dr. Samuel Beckett, the Nobel Prize winning physicist." He leaned casually against the edge of the small dinette and folded his arm across his sling. "You would have no way of knowing that I'm acquainted with Dr. Beckett personally and know for a fact that you're not he."  
  
Sam shut his eyes, the very picture of dispirited frustration. "I'm here working on a top secret government project...." he said, trying another route.  
  
"Save it." Zeddemore's hoarse baritone cut through Sam's explanation brusquely. "I don't need to hear anything from some low-life scum that cooks drugs for school kids." He snorted. "Government project cooking up ice. Right."  
  
"Do you want Ray to die?!" Sam shot back. He froze as three harsh glared turned on him.  
  
Zeddemore made to take a furious step in his direction, then remained where he was, his jaw tight. "We don't need anything from you," was all he said, turning his back.  
  
"Aagh." Al continued to pace, his circuit ending by Ray's bedside. The journey from the plane had been hard on the young occultist, his face had taken on a grayish tint, his consciousness coming and going sporadically. Al regarded him soberly for a full minute before speaking again. "If we can't convince them soon, it's going to be too late - and not only too late for them. Ziggy's probability quotient on this planet taking a nosedive in the next two years is holding steady at 96.6 per cent, and now he's talking about something called PKE build-up, whatever that means."  
  
"I'm willing to listen to suggestions," Sam snapped.  
  
Peter rolled his eyes. "You might as well cut that out, too; an insanity plea isn't going to cut it with the Federal judges."  
  
"Any more than it is with us," Winston added, staring out the window.  
  
Al continued standing beside Ray's cot, head bent, chewing thoughtfully on yet another of the noxious cigars he favored. He finally looked up, a hopeful light in his eye. "I got an idea Sam," he said excitedly. "Maybe Stantz is the key!"  
  
"How do you figure that?"  
  
Al waved his cigar. "Maybe we can get him to convince his pals that we're on the level. After all, if he can hear and see me, maybe he can see you -- the real you, I mean -- through Bauer's disgustingly rotten aura."  
  
Sam brightened. "It's worth a try! See if you can...."  
  
Winston left his place at the window to position himself solidly between Sam and his comrades. "Whatever it is you're planning, you can forget it" He scowled, and placed his hands on his hips. "I lost a kid brother to your kind once," he stated in a matter-of-fact voice at serious odds with his expression. "And let me make one thing clear for you." He crouched until he could regard Sam eye-to-eye. "These guys are important to me --as important to me as LeRoy ever was. If I see, hear or even suspect that you're planning anything to hurt any one of them -- especially Ray," he emphasized, "then I'll kill you."  
  
Sam flinched, his belief clear in his eyes. "I don't want to hurt him," he stated quietly. "I wouldn't."  
  
Winston rose from his crouch but did not remove his gaze from the bound man. "Not much you can do to convince me of that," he said in a more conversational tone. "Some people are so evil you can feel it pour off them in waves.'* He tapped Sam on the chest and added, "And you're one of them, Mr. Drug Dealer." He wandered off, leaving Sam to draw a deep breath and slump in his seat.  
  
"Don't worry, Sam," Al said, returning to his friend's side. "I'll try to contact the kid."  
  
"His name," Sam chided wearily, "is Ray."  
  
Al tossed his head. "I'll try to contact Ray. Maybe he'll listen."  
  
"If he's able," Sam muttered.  
  
Al smiled gaily and strolled off, passing through Peter and taking up a stance at Ray's bedside. "Psst. Hey, kid... uh, Ray, can you hear me?" Ray's lashes fluttered, and Al hailed him again, louder. "Yo, Dr. Stantz! Rise and shine, babe."  
  
The brown eyes opened again. "Who...?"  
  
"It's okay, son." Al bent closer to the rough cot, forcing a smile of his own. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help."  
  
"He's... here to help," Ray dutifully reported.  
  
"Who is?" Egon demanded, immediately on guard.  
  
Ray licked his lips. "Him... from before. He's here to... help."  
  
Peter placed a protective arm across Ray's chest and swung his particle rifle in a 90-degree arc. It passed through Al's thigh, affecting the ex- astronaut not at all. "Help who?" was his sullen if nervous response.  
  
"Help you, ya nozzle!" Al snapped back, ignoring the weapon completely.  
  
Ray's lips twitched at that. "Who... are you?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly. "Why... the world...?"  
  
Al stooped by the bedside, ignoring both Peter's nervous glare and the PKE meter Egon waved around in ever increasing arcs. "My name is Al Calavicci. I came to help you out of this jam you're in."  
  
"Cala-?"  
  
"Calavicci," Al supplied. "Don't try and pronounce it, it's not all that important. Just call me Al."  
  
Ray shook his head. "Calavicci," he repeated weakly. "Know you... and... him." He raised one hand toward the motionless form of Bauer/Beckett, his brow furrowed in the effort at recall. "Can't remember...."  
  
"Ray," Sam called in sudden inspiration. "Describe me to your friends."  
  
Stantz turned his head and, after a moment. Peter moved aside, giving him an unoccluded view of the prisoner. Ray squinted his eyes in concentration. "You're... Peter's age," he said .at last. "Brown hair with a... white streak. Al is wearing... silver."  
  
"My age?" Peter turned on Sam with a start "But..?"  
  
"Calavicci!" Winston's triumphant yelp startled both men. "Of course -- Admiral Albert Calavicci! That's who he's trying for."  
  
"The astronaut?" Egon asked, patent disbelief on his face. "What would an astronaut ... an invisible astronaut be doing in the woods of New Hampshire with a drug dealer that may or may not be a Nobel Prize winning physicist? And why can Ray see him when we can*t?"  
  
"Because he's dying," Sam spoke up, evidently having decided to plunge in with both feet. "We found that only certain people can see Al when he's in this form -- kids, the mentally deficient and the . dying."  
  
"And Ray qualifies on all counts," Peter quipped, but there was no trace of humor in the look he turned on his youngest colleague.  
  
Ray smiled up at him, the very picture of trust "Don't worry. Peter," he said encouragingly. "I'll be... fine. Really. Don't... don't worry about me."  
  
Peter lifted his shoulder in a casual gesture. "Who says I'm worried?" he retorted. "I'm just getting a bit tired of you bleeding all over my hand is all."  
  
Sam, however, treated the statement seriously. "I really am a surgeon involved in a top secret government project" Winston sniffed his disdain at that, but Sam rushed on. "Your friend needs my help if he's going to survive until you're rescued," he urged, practically jumping with excitement "And Al -- Admiral Calavicci - is here because I need help convincing you of that fact." He met each man's eyes, the new doubt touching the dissimilar faces. "How can I convince you that I really am what I say?"  
  
"We're willing to listen to your side," Egon stated fairly. "Starting with why your appearance is different for Ray than it is to us."  
  
"You mean you ... don't see him... like I do?" Ray asked, gazing blearily from Peter to Sam to Al, who was pacing agitatedly.  
  
"They can't see me at all," the Admiral said, flashing him a grin. "And after I bought a new suit and all."  
  
"Why... can't they... see you?" Ray asked, innocently unaware of his companions' sharp looks turned in his direction.  
  
Al, however, was not unaware. "You want to field that one first, Sam? Another minute and Venkman is going to go for his blaster again."  
  
"Why can't we see Admiral Calavicci?" Egon asked, stopping Peter, who was doing exactly that, with a gesture.  
  
Sam shifted in his chair until he could address the blond physicist directly. "Al is present only as a neurological hologram, a visible - to me -- construct of my own mental perceptions of him induced by para-telepathic contact."  
  
Peter looked interested at that. "Why did Ray describe you differently than we're seeing you?"  
  
Sam took a deep breath. "What you're seeing is an illusion -- the form of the man who originally inhabited this time line. We've theorized that the replaced person's physical aura is being projected through me via engram stimulation...."  
  
"Energized psions?" Peter guessed. "Artificially enhancing your own latent esper abilities as an originating source?"  
  
Sam nodded eagerly. "Yes, exactly."  
  
Al stopped his pacing to stare at the brown haired man, impressed. "Well, well, well, looks like Doctor Venkman earned his Ph.d. after all. That's a real snarker, ain't it, Sam?" Beckett wisely refrained from answering that, despite the little chuckle Ray managed. Then the occultist's eyes closed again, and he lay quiet.  
  
Egon's sky blue eyes pierced Sam in a single sweeping look, then turned to Peter, neither doubt nor acceptance visible in his expression. "What do you think. Peter? Do you believe him?"  
  
Peter spared his friend a worried look and bit his lip. "Not for a minute," he answered, shaking his head. "At a guess I'd say we're dealing with a projecting telepath with a possible MPD. Multiple Personality Disorder," he explained to Winston's questioning look. "He may actually believe he's Calavicci and Beckett"  
  
He turned back to Sam, his brows drawn together in a frown. "But we may not have any choice but to use him," he said quietly. "Ray isn't going to last much longer like this." He lifted the hand that had been steadily supplying pressure on the wound for the last thirty-five minutes. His fingers were red stained and he wiggled them carefully, wincing when the muscles cramped on him in return. "He's not bleeding as fast outside," he said, staring helplessly at Egon, "but I think he's still bleeding inside. His stomach feels...."  
  
Winston sighed. "If only we could be sure that you're really telling the truth about being able to help," he stated, fatigue dragging his shoulders into a slump. "I've lost too many of my friends to drug dealers like Bauer." He ran a hand across his face, then knuckled his red eyes. "I'm not going to risk Ray's life to one of them."  
  
"He's a goner any way," Al snapped angrily. His annoyed expression transmuted into apology when Ray opened his eyes and stared at him, dismayed.  
  
"I'm really going to - die?" the younger man asked in a small voice. "I knew... but Peter said...."  
  
Al ducked his head. "Aww, , kid, I didn't mean to say that. If your friends let Sam take care of you, you'll be good as new."  
  
"And... if not..?" Ray persisted, his voice growing weaker by the second.  
  
Peter cast Beckett a glare, then replaced his palm on Ray's side. "Don't listen to him, Ray," he said firmly. "You will be fine, I promise." His glare became a suspicious frown. "A functional telepath would have the ability to mentally coerce us into going along with him, believing him -- even against our better judgment." He looked down at Ray, then settled again on Sam's face, his expression more thoughtful. "And an accomplished telepath would have no problem at all in projecting a full delusion into a sick or weakened man's mind."  
  
"Just what I was saying all along, brothers," Zeddemore interjected, all doubt vanishing from his face. "You can't trust anyone associated with this game. Everyone of 'em'll slash your throat as fast as look at you."  
  
"But without help," Peter went on, perversely changing sides, "Ray's going to... not do too well."  
  
"I wish these nozzles would make up their minds," Al complained, again sticking his head through the wall to check the weather. "It's kind of like watching a tennis match -- from the ball's point of view. Snowing harder, too," he added, reentering the room.  
  
"There is one way we can be sure." Spengler's rumble captured the attention of his fellows. "Well, theoretically, anyway. We could use the ecto- visors."  
  
Zeddemore frowned. "How are they going to help us? Sure, they let us see beings from other dimensions, but these guys... guy." he corrected himself firmly, "is claiming that he's human, just in disguise. "  
  
"It's the energized psion angle, isn't it?" Peter asked excitedly.  
  
Egon nodded. "The visors work because they can filter certain ecto- radiation spectra into perceptible images. If I set the polarization to block energized psions, we should -- and I repeat, should -- get a clear view of the real man beneath the illusion."  
  
"Provided that is an illusion," Winston pointed out harshly.  
  
Peter considered this, his lips a thin white line. "I don't see that it matters much," he remarked, wrapping his fingers around Ray's throat at the pulse point. "We either let Mr. Bauer or Beckett or whatever his name is work on Ray or we get help immediately." He didn't mention the third possibility, that of doing nothing at all, a sure death certificate for Stantz.  
  
Winston sighed. "I'm going to try to walk out of here," he stated flatly. "There's no sense holding off about it. If I can reach a road or town...."  
  
"We're fifteen miles from the nearest highway," Sam informed him, "and I don't know which direction. You'd have trouble finding it in the snow anyway."  
  
Winston swung on him. "At least Ray'll have a chance," he spat, hatred brightening his eyes.  
  
"He'll have a chance if this guy really is a doctor," Peter returned, flaring up himself. "And I'm not going to let anyone cheat Ray out of any chance there is of making it out of here."  
  
"This pusher will kill him personally!" Winston snapped back. "Then he'll have no chance at all!" He and Peter stared at each other, each taking the other's measure, their shoulders tense, fists clenched. The air crackled with tension, both street-tough men willing to enforce their stand physically if necessary. Neither flinched from the impending possibility of combat, friendship fleeing before the winner's prize: saving the life of their youngest friend. Winston bared his teeth. "I'm not going to let some drug pusher...."  
  
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Egon roared, silencing them both through the sheer unexpectedness of his intervention. He stepped between the two, turning his back on a smoldering Venkman to address Winston first. "We may not have a choice," he began in a reasonable tone. "Time is growing critical, and with the storm blowing harder maybe Dr.... uh, Bauer is Ray's best chance at the moment But-" He raised a hand, forestalling the black man*s protest before it could be uttered. "I'll collect the ecto-visors first, give him an opportunity to prove his claim. If they don't substantiate what Dr. Bauer is saying, then we'll keep him tied up and think things through again. With the plane only across the rise, we won't lose more than a quarter of an hour or so in making the attempt. Fair?"  
  
Zeddemore subsided, chewing his thumbnail. "Fair," he admitted. "But I'm the one that's going back to the plane, not you." He hefted his proton rifle to chin level. "Naggaoth is still out there and I'm sure he'd love the opportunity to catch one of us alone. With a broken wrist, you'd be a sitting duck in an attack."  
  
"What about you?" the blond protested. "You'll be facing a Class 8 nether- lord without back-up. Perhaps the both of us...."  
  
"Uh-unh, no way you're gonna leave Peter and Ray here unguarded." Zeddemore rose decidedly. "I can handle Naggaoth. You just make sure you're alert if he decides to stage another attack here, understand?"  
  
Spengler nodded and settled himself more comfortably in his chair, his broken wrist in his lap, his thrower braced against his knee. "Don't forget to bring back some traps. We can't hold Naggaoth without them."  
  
"Hang tough, m'man," Peter added, tossing him a sloppy salute.  
  
Winston smiled. "Always do, brother," he said, heading for the door. "I always do."  
  
*** 


	5. Chapter 5

The snow was falling harder than ever by the time Winston Zeddemore began his trip. Flakes swirled and eddied, catching in his short curly hair and hanging there, the temperature of his body causing them to melt and run down his face in little rivulets. He scowled and surveyed his surroundings.  
  
"Don't recall whose idea these thermal uniforms were," he told himself aloud, "but I sure owe somebody a beer when we get back."  
  
The landscape shone brightly under the dying sun, the snow-laden boughs and ground reflecting back the dim light a thousandfold. Winston whistled softly at the sheer beauty of the scene, and then plunged into the forest, his Army trained sense of direction pointing him unerringly toward the downed plane. "Beats Viet Nam any day," was his thought as the forest closed around him.  
  
Zeddemore moved quickly, his ground-eating lope covering the distance back to the plane in approximately half the time it'd taken to make the initial trip. The trees broke open into the well-remembered clearing and Winston paused, still hidden by the forest, to conduct a rapid visual recon of the area. Save for the light accumulation of snow which now overlay the gleaming metal skin, the plane lay unchanged from when he'd last seen it, though it was only now that he realized just how much damage the vehicle had sustained in the crash. The front end was badly crumpled, the whole nose pushed in on itself from where it had initially struck the ground, and the starboard wing was practically torn away. The smell of jet fuel was strong, stronger than it had been before, and Winston heaved a thankful sigh that the plane hadn't been turned into a fireball on impact.  
  
He negotiated the distance around the tail, his boots making crunching noises in the snowcrusted earth. The torn aperture of the port fuselage gaped blackly against that sea of white, and Zeddemore lost no time in making for it. He used the wing as a stepboard, much as Sam had done earlier, and poked his head through the hatch, thrower primed to fire and accelerator humming its readiness on his back. It was a safe sound, one of leashed nuclear power, and Winston drew comfort from the security its presence offered against the very real threat of revenge by the Lord of Decay.  
  
The interior was dim, little of the dazzling light without making its way through the small windows. Winston blinked twice, only then realizing that he could see - the emergency lights continued to glow red, shedding enough illumination for him to navigate the cabin without stumbling.  
  
He climbed inside, thrower leveled, senses alert for any clue that Naggaoth had followed him from the cabin. He paused, listening intently, the hairs on his neck prickling with the sure knowledge that he was right in his caution - Naggaoth was here... waiting.  
  
Winston shivered. "Looks like it's show time," he muttered, cautiously making his way back to the passenger compartment. From one side Ann McDonneFs legs projected pathetically from beneath the rough curtain leading to the cockpit He paused, head bowed, by her body, his lips moving in a brief, silent prayer. Then his head came up, his face hardening back into the combat mask he'd worn since leaving the cabin. His senses were now jangling a full alarm, and he examined every shadow carefully for Naggaoth's loathsome form.  
  
"You might as well show yourself now, Naggaoth!" Winston called insolently, stamping his feet. He stepped carefully around the woman's legs and made his way to the rear of the plane. "I know you're here; you want'a have things out now?"  
  
There was no answer from Naggaoth, the only sounds being the hollow thumps of Winston's boots, eerie when backdropped against the rising wind outside his meager shelter.  
  
"Naggaoth?" Still nothing. Egon's grip still lay where it had been flung by the crash, and Winston dropped to his knees beside it, opening the zipper with one hand. "Ecto-visors, two fresh traps, auxiliary PKE meter.." He ticked off its contents item by item, then rezipped the bag and made to rise.  
  
"Bad idea. Zed," he stopped himself, reopening the grip. "I'm gonna need both hands free if... when Naggaoth hits." He hurriedly attached the two fully charged traps to hooks on the back of his pack, slipped the ecto- visors and PKE meter into his pocket and rose again, gripping his thrower tightly in both hands.  
  
"Still no sign of Naggaoth. Maybe I'm going to make it back in one piece after all." So cheered by this possibility, he retraced his route through the plane. "Maybe Naggaoth isn't interested in me at...." That thought died away, replaced by the vivid mental image of the creature's earlier assault, of the vengeance-lust in Naggaoth's hard eyes when he looked at Ray, pale and bleeding, backed up against the plane's steel wall, of the creature's vow to taste his blood -- either before or after that of all the other Ghostbusters.  
  
Winston felt his face drain as the most probable explanation for Naggaoth's absence dawned on him. "He might be attacking the guys right now," he breathed, more horrified than before. "He might not be interested in me at all if they...."  
  
"Oh," an eerie rumbling voice answered from directly overhead, "but I am interessssted in you, ssssingle humannn. Verry much ssso."  
  
Winston ducked an instant ahead of the green, multi-taloned arm which would have split his head neatly in two. He dropped the rest of the way to the deck, then rolled to his feet and brought up his particle rifle, all in one coordinated motion. The hand, unfortunately, had already withdrawn through the ceiling.  
  
"You missed!" Winston taunted, making a dash for the open hatch. "You want to try again, slimehead?"  
  
He dove through the opening, seeking the increased maneuvering room of the open air. He hit the ground, dropping to his knees, then immediately springing to his feet. "Can't let him catch me," he breathed, starting for the woods. "I have to keep ahead of him... no matter what." A sprint of a dozen yards took him to the tree line. He dove through them, swatting away the pine needles that scratched shallow furrows in his skin. Behind him the crash of a heavy body betrayed Naggaoth's continuing interest in the black Ghostbuster. Obviously disdaining his abilities to become insubstantial, the nether-lord forced his way through the foliage through sheer brute strength, his angry snarl muffled not at all by the soft blanket of snow which covered everything.  
  
The chase continued for some time. Winston dodged trees and logs, ducked snow laden boughs and jumped ditches already freezing over from the winter cold. And still Naggaoth came, his own pace slowed not at all by the rough terrain the human was traversing only with difficulty.  
  
Many minutes passed. "Got to lose him," Winston gasped finally, growing winded by the extended run. "I...." He tilted his head in a listening attitude, not slowing his headlong rush at all, but the woods to Winston's rear were utterly silent. "He's... not behind me...?" he began, glancing over his shoulder. A mistake as he learned when two slime-covered arms closed around him from the front. Winston yelped.  
  
"At lasssf." A breath of fetid air wafted into Winston's face, the stench of rotting bodies and decomposing flesh. "Ar lasst, onnne of my tormenntersss iss mine." Winston gagged, the bile rising to choke him at the proximity of the Lord of Decay. "Let... go," he managed, kicking wildly. His booted feet connected, but Naggaoth only hefted him higher, seemingly unaffected by the blows. "Let go!"  
  
Eyes yellow and flat like a snake's gleamed with an inner light as the swamp spawn leaned closer, the better to examine his catch. "Pretty, pretty flesh,'' Naggaoth crooned, dripping saliva onto Winston's shoulder. "Sssso tassty. So warm."  
  
Zeddemore's mind whirled, analyzing his situation in a flash. Naggaoth's arms were wrapped once around his chest, Winston's particle thrower trapped between their two bodies, the barrel pointed upward at an angle. The grip was steel -- even semi-corporeal, Naggaoth was by far the most substantial entity they'd faced in some time, and, consequently, one of the most physically powerful. Winston had no hope of breaking that grip by strength of arm alone.  
  
The human's advantage, however, lay in the viscous slime which covered every square inch of the nether lord's body. Realizing this, the oldest Ghostbuster began to squirm, earning himself another blast of Naggaoth's foul laughter. "Fight me, pretty, tasty, beautiffful human," the creature said, bobbing its head. "Tasste better .fight."  
  
But Winston had achieved the position he wanted. He froze and waited, sneering as best he could while trying his best not to inhale Naggaoth's stench. "Pond scum like you don*t deserve to be fought."  
  
"Talk, not fight, flesh food?" Naggaoth retorted, managing to sound angry, disappointed and gleeful all at once. "Ohhh, sooo" The reptilian head shook once, then slowly began to descend, its target: the flesh of Winston's shoulder. "Taaastyyy"  
  
Winston waited until the dripping teeth were positioned six inches from his skin, then he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger of his weapon, craning as far away from the resulting lightning bolt as he could. It struck Naggaoth squarely beneath the jaw, jolting the great head backwards. Naggaoth howled, dropping Zeddemore unceremoniously to the ground before vanishing.  
  
"How about some more?!" Winston reopened his challenge, gritting his teeth against his own pain. He pulled himself to his feet, thrower at ready, but there was no answer from Naggaoth, and gradually Winston allowed himself to slump back to the ground, his hand going to the left side of his face.  
  
"Oh, man that hurts," he groaned, lightly touching the swelling skin which adorned his cheek and neck, the result of the energy discharge. "Much closer and I wouldn't 'a' had a face left at all."  
  
He opened his eyes and blinked, relieved when his vision immediately cleared. "Well, what do you know?" he said in a pleased voice. "It worked!" He allowed himself the indulgence of a single moment to celebrate his triumph, then he was on his feet, alarm erasing his newborn smile.  
  
"Ray," he gasped. "Peter! Naggaoth will go for them next!"  
  
"Not nexxxt," a hated voice answered from beyond the trees. "Now!"  
  
"No!" Winston's face hardened into lines and planes far removed from his usual amiable features. "Touch them, Naggaoth," he swore, clenching his fist, "and I won't just stop with trapping you; I'll destroy you - permanently!"  
  
"You sssshall live a long time befffore you die..." was Naggaoth's only reply, and that swallowed up in the muting blanket of falling snow.  
  
"They won't have a chance," Zeddemore panted, breaking off an icicle and clapping it to his cheek. "Two of them hurt and they don't have any traps!'* He started off at a dead run, heedless of the treacherous slush beneath his feet. "Hang on, guys," he prayed, increasing his speed to a full run. "0l' Winston Zeddemore is on his way."  
  
*** 


	6. Chapter 6

Three pairs of eyes stared at the door for a long time after it had closed behind Winston's broad back, Al even passing through the wall to watch until he'd vanished past the tree line. It was Egon who finally broke the ensuing silence. "I'm going to heat up the coffee," he announced, getting to his feet. "Peter?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
Egon raised the metal pot to eye level before placing it onto one of the gas jets. "Coffee?"  
  
Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair, brushing the drooping locks out of his face. "Yeah. Sure, We may be here a while yet" He looked down at Ray, who lay eyes closed and quiescent under Peter's hand, then he shifted to Sam, still tied securely to his chair. The green eyes started with the old fishing cap, perched precariously atop the man's head, trailing languidly downward until even Sam's beat up boots had been examined and filed.  
  
Sam shifted uncomfortably under that impersonal and analytical gaze, but allowed the scrutiny without comment. Not so his friend.  
  
"I've seen that look before," Al fumed, stomping from one end of the room to the other. "DOCTOR Verbena Beeks has that same look. You ever notice that look, Sam? These shrinks give you that fish-eye look, like you're a piece of meat and they can't decide whether you're prime rib or dog food."  
  
Sam smiled, the merest twitch of his lips, but Peter noticed and pounced immediately. "Something funny?" he asked hard voiced.  
  
"You mean besides you?" Al asked nastily.  
  
Sam shook his head. "It's not hard to guess what you're thinking," he began carefully. "You were sizing me up, weren't you, to decide whether or not you can trust me."  
  
The latter was not a question but Peter chose to treat it as such. "I don't trust you," he returned honestly. "I think you're a drug dealer and a low life who's playing mind games with us to try and work out an escape."  
  
"Then why the size-up?" Al grumbled impatiently.  
  
"Then you've already made up your mind about me, even without those visor things Winston went after," Sam said, dismayed.  
  
There was a clatter from the stove and then Egon was at Peter's side, shoving a steaming mug into his hand. "Take a break. Peter," he offered kindly. "I'll take care of Ray for a few minutes."  
  
Peter's fingers closed automatically around the cup. "I'm all right." He took a sip, then wrinkled his nose. "Or at least I was. What'd you put in this, gym socks?"  
  
"We're probably fortunate if that's all that Mr. Bauer puts in his coffee," Spengler responded, returning to the stove. He took a hefty gulp from his own cup, setting it on the stove and returning to the bed. "Take a break," he repeated more firmly than before. "You need it." Peter hesitated, then nodded, staring a long time at Ray before finally gaining his feet. The occultist's condition had visibly deteriorated over the past thirty minutes; his breath now came in short, panting gasps and his skin had taken on the cool, clammy feel of deep shock. He didn't react when Peter released the firm pressure he'd maintained constantly on the wound, nor did he do more than sigh when Egon settled next to him and placed his own palm where Peter's had been.  
  
The two older Ghostbusters exchanged a worried look at this lack of response. "Not much time left," Venkman said, gesturing vaguely at a small alarm clock on the table. He grimaced and raised his hand higher, red crusted both skin and nails, some of it still the bright crimson of fresh blood, the rest the color of old rust, dried and cracking. He stared at it intently as though he'd never seen it before, wiggling his fingers in uneasy rhythm. "So much blood," he murmured, exhaustion dragging at his voice. "Too much."  
  
"Then do something!" Al urged, waving both hands before the psychologist's face. "Let Sam go!"  
  
But Peter, unconscious of Al's frustrated admonishment, merely allowed his hand to drop back to his side. "I'm going to wash up," he finished, repairing cup and all to the bathroom and shutting the door.  
  
Al used the opportunity to return to his friend and poke him with one insubstantial forefinger. "This Spengler seems like an intelligent sort, Sam. See if you can make him listen to reason."  
  
"Nothing to lose," Sam sighed.  
  
Egon looked up at that and Sam tried on another smile. Egon frowned. "You really shouldn't do that," he advised with a marked lack of interest.  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Smile. It makes you look like a piranha."  
  
Calavicci squinted his eyes. "He's right, Sam, you do look like a piranha. You know, those little fish with the big teeth...." "I know what a piranha is!" Sam snapped irritably.  
  
Unaware of the other half of the conversation, Egon shrugged. "I never said that you didn't"  
  
"Uh... yeah, right" Casting Al a reproachful look, Sam tried another tack. "You and your friends seem to be very close. Have you been together long?"  
  
Spengler shifted in his seat, resting his splinted arm more comfortably in his lap, "A dozen years," he said quietly, "Long enough to watch Peter and Ray grow up." He smiled slightly and added, "More or less."  
  
"They didn't go to M.I.T.?" Sam asked, wrinkling his brow in thought. "I don't remember them."  
  
"With that swiss-cheese memory of yours," Al interjected, perching on the edge of something invisible, "you're lucky to remember that you went to M.I.T. But Spengler's the only one you could have known, anyway; the other two were too young to have been in any of your classes, and Zeddemore never matriculated."  
  
Egon confirmed this with a swift shake of the head. "They went to Columbia; Peter and I met when we were sharing a lab for awhile, and Ray was in one of my math classes. I've... managed to keep an eye on them ever since."  
  
"Losing Ray now would be a terrible thing," Sam said gently. "Friends can become as close to you as your own flesh and blood. I know." He exchanged a warm smile with Al, who nodded amiably in confirmation. "My brother Tom used to watch out for me, too, when I was growing up. After he died, Al took over the job -- whether I needed watching out for or not."  
  
"What you need is a keeper," Calavicci muttered, swinging his foot. He followed Sam's line of sight, studying Spongier, who was sitting shoulders hunched and head bowed, his eyes fixed firmly on the ashen face of his injured comrade. "I know what you're thinking, Sam, and I agree -- losing that boy is going to kill this one, too." He gestured vaguely toward the bathroom, from which the sound of running water could be faintly heard. "And Venkman. Sam, we gotta find some way to get these lunkheads to see reason!"  
  
"Some way," Sam whispered, his eyes full of compassion. "I know how I'd feel if it was you laying there."  
  
"Funny," Egon went on, unhearing, "but when you mentioned Dr. Beckett..." His glasses slid down his long nose and he barely aborted the automatic move to adjust them. With one hand wrapped in bandages and splint, and the other holding in Ray Stantz' lifeblood, he found himself short one appendage. He tossed his blond head, managing to shift them slightly higher, they hovered a moment, then slid back down. Egon sighed and gave up. "When you mentioned Dr. Beckett," he repeated, starting again, "It made me think about how much Ray always reminded me of him. Both of them are shy, brilliant young men; didn't have the faintest clue about how to handle the 'real' world outside of the college walls when I first met them."  
  
"I wasn't that bad," Sam protested, giving his ropes another tug.  
  
"You're still that bad," Al told him with a broad grin. He cocked his head in a listening attitude, then slid to his feet. "Be right back, Sam; Gooshie's paging me." The imaging door opened then closed, and he was gone.  
  
But Sam's statement had brought Egon's head up, forcing a return to awareness of just who it was he was addressing. "Dr. Beckett published a theory on time travel some five years ago. Do you recall it?"  
  
Sam nodded. "My string theory." He glanced briefly at his surroundings -- the rough planked walls, the old clothes he wore -- and rolled his eyes. "Oh, yes, I recall it." He again fixed on Egon, who was regarding him with skepticism... and hope. "A man's life can be likened to a string," he said, his tones shifting to a lecture mode. "If you can somehow crumple that string into a ball so that all the points touch...."  
  
"I read that article," Egon interrupted brusquely. "It discussed the pure mathematics of the theorem, without including a practical application analysis. The scientific community long deduced that that oversight was due to Government intercession."  
  
"It was." Sam's eyes darkened. "Military intervention, to be precise." He shrugged as best he could with his hands tied. "No matter. The Quantum Accelerator was completed and tested." He leaned forward excitedly. "We were actually able to produce an entropy field completely separate from the universal norm, and then to manipulate the reality interface forward and backward along a linear path. The result was a functional time machine!"  
  
"The string theory allowed for a man to replace himself in the time stream," Spengler pointed out, stretching one long, blue-clad leg straight out before him. "You're telling me that you were able to replace another man?"  
  
That brought a pucker to Sam's brow. I've been thinking about that - for obvious reasons. I seem to have neglected to include the element of psychic variables affecting the reality envelope itself. I'm being drawn to points in various people's lives, which are critical enough to generate actual eddies in the time stream -- eddies powerful enough to override the impulse to travel along my own lifeline, A para-psionic connection between the original inhabitant and his own timeline broadcasts an illusion of that person's physical aura, that illusion forcing the receptor to fill in such details as voice and general appearance, even extending to the tactile senses."  
  
"Everyone sees-hears-feels precisely what they expect to." Spengler studied the other physicist again, even more intensely than before. The hope evident in the sky blue eyes had grown steadily as Sam had talked, replacing the skepticism at the improbability of the story. "Dr. Beckett's theorem was accepted only with caution on a general scale due to the fact that it relied heavily on Pythagorian mathematics to support the most primary concepts."  
  
"Did it?" Sam asked with interest just as Al reappeared through the imaging chamber door. "I have a lot of trouble remembering the details."  
  
"Don't tell him that, Sam!" Al wailed, clapping a hand to his forehead. "You've almost got him convinced!"  
  
Too late - the hope faded from Egon's face as though it had never been. "But then, that was only a published theory," he intoned, turning back to Ray. "Something anyone could have read."  
  
"Shoot," Beckett muttered.  
  
Al wandered the room again, his head sunk on his breast. "Try something else, Sam, and do it quick. Time's running out."  
  
Ray tossed his head, beginning to grow agitated, and Egon bent over him, alarmed. "Do you know much about medicine. Dr. Spengler?" Sam asked quickly.  
  
Egon didn't reply right away; rather several minutes passed during which he did no more than stare down at Ray, full lips pursed. Finally, he looked up, meeting Sam's eyes directly. "Enough to know that Peter's right - there isn't much time left. We're going to have to...."  
  
Peter chose that moment to emerge from the washroom, his face and hands fresh scrubbed, and dabbing at the smeared spot on his knee which marked an unsuccessful laundry attempt. He crossed immediately to Ray, who was muttering fretfully to himself. "Take it easy," he soothed, laying his hand on Ray's hair. "That's right - everything is fine." Stantz gradually calmed under that comforting touch, turning his face toward Peter hand and falling quiet once more.  
  
Peter shifted slightly until he could again face Sam, his brows drawn together, flat analysis becoming open speculation. "I made up my mind not to trust you the minute I saw you," he stated, returning to the earlier conversation as though it had never been interrupted. "My only problem is deciding whether or not you're really a surgeon and how much you value your own life."  
  
"What's he mean by that?" Calavicci demanded, frowning in turn.  
  
A full half minute passed during which the only sound was the bubble of the coffee on the stove and the labored breathing of the injured man. Finally, Sam nodded. "I understand. You want to work a deal."  
  
"If you're what you say you are," Peter acknowledged, giving Ray's cheek a final pat. "Ray lives, you go free before the cops get here. If he dies..." He grinned coldly, "...then so do you."  
  
"Big deal," Al retorted, scuffing one silver sneaker on the wooden floor. "If the boy dies so does everybody. Better than you got now, though."  
  
"Agreed," Sam said, nodding once. "Would you like to let me up? I won't be able to do much of anything until the circulation returns to my hands."  
  
"Just a moment." That was Egon, his powerful bass a shocking contrast to the deadly quiet tones of both Peter and Sam. "Winston isn't back with the ecto-visors yet. We agreed...."  
  
"You agreed," Peter interrupted rudely. "I decided." Egon opened his mouth and Peter's eyes glowed emerald. "I'm not going to let Ray die," he stated, his tones flashing the same challenge as his eyes.  
  
Egon closed his mouth with a snap, then nodded. "I... resist the thought of trusting this man with Ray," he returned, flicking a blue gaze in Sam's direction, "but I am willing to trust your instincts in this."  
  
Peter's returning smile lit his face, smoothing away the lines etching themselves into his smooth skin. He fished into one pocket, pulling out a jackknife and expertly flicking it open. It was the work of seconds to free Sam's hands, then Peter straightened, adapting an easy stance in front of Beckett, his weight on his toes. "Remember," he said, fingering the knife meaningfully, "if he dies, so do you."  
  
Sam continued to sit where he was, massaging his wrists. "Did you see anything more useful than that for me to operate with?" he asked, jerking his head at the jackknife.  
  
Peter hesitated, then snapped it closed. "There are a couple of scalpels in the lab. They look sharp."  
  
Sam nodded and made his way to the cot. "Find some alcohol and put them in to soak," he directed, tapping Egon's shoulder. The blond rose and Sam took his place by the bed and lifted away the mound of blankets which covered Ray from head to toe. Ray said something softly and Sam patted his leg. "Everything's going to be all right," he said. "Don't worry. Al?" he added in a whisper.  
  
"Right behind you, Sam."  
  
Beckett pressed his fingers against Ray's throat, purposely keeping his face turned away from Egon and Peter. "Give me pulse and blood pressure," he murmured, counting to himself.  
  
Al consulted his comlink and shook his head. "Not good; pulse is 96, blood pressure 90/50. Respiration is 25 and shallow."  
  
Sam released Ray's throat and carefully examined the wound itself, the skin was discolored and hot to the touch and there was a decided swelling to the abdominal area. Sam drew a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his teeth. "Definitely still bleeding inside," he said quietly. He made to rise, then stopped and dropped back to his seat. "Can Ziggy give me an X- ray?" he asked curiously. "Then you can display the results as a holographic image."  
  
Al punched in a few figures on his comlink, smiling widely at the results. "X-ray's impossible," he said, tapping the instrument with his forefinger, "but I can take thermal and magnetic scans, then Ziggy can cross-reference them with the autopsy report to give you a computer simulation to work off of!"  
  
True to his word a shimmering image appeared above Ray's chest, that of a man's abdomen, the skin translucent. It seemed to peel away layer by layer until a metal spike could be seen embedded in the tissue. No X-ray ever gave a view so clear as this detailed representation of the injury sight. Sam studied it intently several minutes, then nodded and the hologram vanished.  
  
"I've got a preliminary analysis for you," he began formally. "The metal entered the lower right quadrant between the abdominal and peritoneal walls. I don't think the intestine has been punctured, which is fortunate."  
  
"Yeah, Ray's real lucky," Peter said, pausing at the threshold to the lab. "Anything else?"  
  
Sam scanned the room quickly, then began to assemble the make-shift equipment he would be needing. "Sterilize this too," he said, pouncing on a miniature 'bachelor's' sewing kit. "Needles... threads. I'm also going to need a stable place to work."  
  
"The lab table?" Egon suggested, easing his broken arm into a more comfortable position in its sling. "It's sturdy wood."  
  
Sam nodded. "Fine. In and out surgery...."  
  
"Meatball surgery," Peter called, popping his head back through the door. He met Sam's blank stare with a wry twist of his lips. "You know, M.A.S.H.? Hawkeye Pierce?" Sam shook his head."  
  
"You were still nerding when M.A.S.H. came on," Al stated from behind. "Though it escapes me how you could have missed it for eleven straight years."  
  
Knowing better than to get involved in this type of discussion, Sam merely shrugged and finished his preparations, meager though they were. In short order he gestured Pete over. "We have to move him into the lab," he instructed, indicating the poles of the airline stretcher which railed over either side of the bed. "As carefully as possible - we don't want to jar that spike into doing more damage. "  
  
Peter nodded and instantly assumed his place at the head of the cot Now that his decision to use Sam was made the psychologist was all cooperation and watchful assistance. Working together the two carried Stantz into the lab and deposited him on the hardwood table. Ray cried out once when he was lifted and again when the stretcher settled, calling Peter's name both times. Venkman clenched his jaw at this necessity of causing his friend more pain, dropping the stretcher poles the instant Ray was on the table and circling to the younger man's side.  
  
"Easy does it," he soothed, petting Ray's hair in gentle strokes. "Everything is all right; I'm here." He continued to talk softly to the hurting man until Ray again lay quiet. Sam brushed Peter brusquely aside to check Ray's pupils and pulse, then he stepped back, allowing the psychologist access to the bed again. "Get rid of the stretcher," he directed, heading for the door."Then get his clothes off. You can cover him with a sheet while I wash up." Sam didn't wait for the double acknowledgement before the lavatory door was shutting behind him, "Al?" he called, turning on the water tap.  
  
"Good news, Sam." Calavicci appeared through the far wall, picking a strand of long blonde hair from his lapel. "According to Ziggy, the kid... uh, Ray's chances of surviving just went up 10 per cent."  
  
Sam, busy lathering with dish detergent, looked up, dismayed. "Only 10 per cent? That means they're still only...."  
  
"Thirty-two per cent."  
  
"Right" Beckett scrubbed furiously at his nails, sloshing soap suds onto the floor. "Does he know why the numbers are still so low?"  
  
Al again consulted his comlink. He entered several figures, waited, then entered one more. His brow wrinkled. "Time factor involved here on two levels," he reported, giving the instrument a sound whack on his thigh. "If you finish operating inside of the next twenty minutes, the kid's chances go up to 91.81 per cent; they drop fast at 22 minutes, evidently from the shock. After 27 minutes his chances of surviving the next day are under 9 per cent." He looked up, his expression grim. "Ziggy also thinks that monster we saw earlier is still around. Even if Dr. Stantz survives the operation, he might not make it out of the cabin alive."  
  
"And the world?" Sam asked unhappily.  
  
That elicited a whole new scenario to be run through the computer. Al read the results, stared, then re-ran the program, his jaw dropping.  
  
Alarmed, Sam left off scrubbing his left forearm to stare at the older man in turn. "What is it, Al? What's wrong?"  
  
Al raised his head, turning the comlink around so that Sam could read the results for himself. "Not wrong, Sam, better! Look at this!"  
  
"Plus-71 per cent" Sam frowned. "The world's survival rate increased by twelve times! Then the operation is going to be a success?"  
  
Al shook his head. "Not necessarily, but the team -- or at least the surviving members stay together even if you fail."  
  
"They don't disband if Ray dies?"  
  
"Some do, some don't" Al settled himself on an invisible chair and crossed his legs. "Ziggy re-accessed some old newspaper articles; it seems that both Venkman and Spengler do leave for awhile but the business continues under Zeddemore's leadership. He puts a new team together and handles routine cases for awhile with somebody named Kobart. Then about six months later Venkman comes back on a part time basis. Looks like they're still in business. And the scenario holds true even if only two of them walk out of here tonight."  
  
"Then the world doesn't depend on Ray's survival anymore?" Sam asked, using his elbows to shut off the tap.  
  
Al shrugged. "70 per cent isn't bad odds," he pointed out, "but if the boy makes it the odds go up another nineteen points. If I was a gambling man..."  
  
"Which you are," Sam interjected, with a smile.  
  
"...which l am, I'd rather bet my bankroll on 89 per cent than 70, wouldn't you?" He gave Beckett a direct look. "Do your best, Sam, or you may not have a world to come back to when you're finished leaping."  
  
Sam gave the lavatory door a sound kick, slamming it back against the wall. "As a doctor, I plan on doing that anyway."  
  
"Sure you do," Al agreed, following him out  
  
The operation began precisely five minutes later with Sam dabbing some of the ether formerly used in the production of illegal substances onto a wad of cotton and holding it across Ray's nose and mouth. "No, don't fight it," he instructed, but Ray instinctively raised both hands, struggling weakly against Sam's own. "Dr. Venkman, a little assistance here, please?"  
  
Peter was at his side in a flash, grabbing Ray's wrists and pinning them to the bed. "It's okay, pal," he soothed, easily restraining the injured man. "Don't be afraid, it's Peter."  
  
"Breathe deeply," Sam said. "That's right.. in... exhale... in...."  
  
Ray's struggles slowed quickly; within seconds he was unconscious, a fact confirmed by a hovering Al Calavicci. "He's under," the ex-astronaut remarked, keeping his comlink turned in Stantz' direction. "Pulse, respiration and blood pressure are within acceptable norms."  
  
"Good." Sam nodded, satisfied, then jerked his head toward the door. "You two better wait outside; the fewer people in here the fewer sources of infection I have to worry about." Peter didn't move, rather he regarded Sam sharply for a long moment Sam turned on him, impatient and harried. "You made up your mind to let me do my job," he stated flatly. "Now either do as I say or call it off, but decide now; there's no time left" Peter stiffened at that but he only nodded shortly and stalked out.  
  
Bereft of purpose due to his own broken wrist, Egon left as well, calling over his shoulder, "We'll borrow some of your clothes for him when you're finished," before shutting the door.  
  
Left alone, Sam began his work, using Al's sophisticated sensors to monitor Ray's vital signs, while outside two worried Ghostbusters spent their time pacing the floor and cursing -- Egon in several languages, two of which had not been spoken on this planet for millennia. This state of affairs continued for nearly a quarter of an hour without incident until... Egon's PKE meter turned itself on.  
  
"Blast!" the physicist swore, swooping the instrument off his belt. "Positive readings and they're Naggaoth's."  
  
"Direction?" Peter asked, calmly helping the older man on with his pack.  
  
Egon shook his head. "No, only contact, but he's close."  
  
Peter snapped the trailing straps around Egon's waist then reached for his own pack, slipping it easily across his broad shoulders. Then he tapped, quite politely, on the closed lab door. "Got a bit of a brouhaha brewing," he quipped, visibly paling at the blood which seemed to be everywhere. He gulped and added, "It-it's Naggaoth."  
  
Sam nodded, his mind still on the task at hand. "I need approximately ten minutes to finish tying off these blood vessels," he muttered, dropping a sponge carelessly to the floor. "No margins."  
  
Peter nodded and withdrew his head. "Egon, old buddy," he told the tense blond who was staring intently at the front door, "we need ten minutes or Ray's bought it, and I need a direction on Naggaoth."  
  
Spengler gestured with his meter, then clipped it to his belt and drew his particle thrower. "Straight ahead. Dr. Venkman," he replied, powering up. "Naggaoth's coming straight at us."  
  
"Just the way I like it," Peter grunted. He threw open the door and stepped out into the world of white. He cleared his throat before shouting, "HEY, Naggaoth! WE'RE WAITIN' ON YA, BABE! "  
  
He cocked his head, listening carefully and was rewarded by the crunch of heavy feet in the new fallen snow. "Naggaoth comessss," the being hissed, becoming visible -- and substantial. "Naggaoth feeedsss."  
  
"Egon!" Peter yelled, opening fire.  
  
Struck squarely by the proton beam, the Lord of Decay began to melt, liquefying like an old corpse and oozing into the white coated earth. A gangrenous residue marked the spot where the creature vanished.  
  
"Keep alert. Peter," Spengler advised, spinning in a slow circle. "A Class 8 isn't going to be stopped by one proton beam."  
  
"Naggaoth isss here."  
  
The voice originated a dozen feet to Egon's fore. The physicist spun, snapping off a shot at the head which emerged from a mud hole, Peter's fire striking at roughly the same instant. Once more the creature melted back into the ground. "He's playing with us," Spengler said, casting a glance at the PKE meter.  
  
"Just like he did in Bangor." Peter edged nearer the cabin, eyes darting in all directions. "He played cat and mouse with his early victims, too. I understand that he got as much enjoyment from the chase as he did-"  
  
"Consuming them," Egon finished grimly.  
  
"Yeah." A sprint of ten yards took Peter back to the cabin. He moved aside to let Egon in, then resumed his position blocking the entrance with his body. "Bauer needs another ten minutes minimum," he said as an aside. "We have to keep Naggaoth outside until then or Ray won't have a chance."  
  
"Until then?" Spengler asked incredulously, peeking into the lab and then quickly closing the door again. "What are we supposed to do after that? We can barely restrain a Class 8 with two throwers, and then not for long. And without traps, he'll rip us apart."  
  
"Then we'll have to think of something else, won't we?" Peter snarled, snatching the PKE meter from Egon's belt. "I'm not letting that thing get to Ray no matter what the cost."  
  
"I do concur," Egon said mildly. "I was only wondering how we plan to accomplish that."  
  
"I...." Venkman broke off abruptly to offer his older colleague an apologetic smile. "I don*t know how," he said more quietly. "I only know we have no choice." He turned back to the doorway, holding the PKE meter straight out like a sword. "This thing is pretty useless," he complained, giving it a shake. "I can't pinpoint Naggaoth at all."  
  
Egon nodded, causing his blond wave to bob. "He's giving off too much wide- spectrum PKE. No way to tell where he'll concentrate it for a manifest"  
  
"I just love it when you talk like that," Peter sighed with characteristic sarcasm. "Doesn't help a bit but it sounds great"  
  
He trailed off, watching in fascination as the rough planks making up the kitchen floor began to dance, several nails tearing free with the sound of a gunshot. He pressed a hand against the door frame but it remained stubbornly stable, only the floorboards showing any motion. "The game is afoot," he quipped, taking aim.  
  
"More like a floor," the blond returned, clutching his own thrower against his side to steady it. He too aimed carefully... ...and the shaking stopped.  
  
"I feel like a maze rat," Egon complained, not lowering his weapon. "Being taunted into action."  
  
"Sssweet flesh foood. A scaly hand oozed through the floorboards, dripping slime and decayed leaves. It made a snatch for Egon's ankle, the talons actually causing a whistling sound as they closed on empty air for Egon was already in motion. A wild leap carried him beyond the range of that grasping hand and an agile twist of his body brought his thrower to target. He fired, spraying the hand and now extended arm with a stream of energized protons. Naggaoth screamed, emerging fully head and shoulders when Peter joined his power to Egon's, both packs turned to tractor mode.  
  
"Full power!" Peter yelled, turning a knob.  
  
Egon's weapon jumped suddenly, nearly freeing itself from his one-handed grip. "I... I can*t hold it!" he screamed. "My arm...."  
  
Tight lipped. Peter moved closer to the physicist, eyes fixed firmly on the struggling swamp thing. "No good," he called over the crackle of energy. "I can't get any closer to you without cutting my power."  
  
"It's feedback from Naggaoth." Moving slowly and carefully, Egon freed his broken hand from the sling, grunting when the crude splint caught in the material. He clenched his teeth and pulled it loose, then positioned his fingers across the top of his barrel. "I've got... full power!" he said, turning the knob. His energy stream brightened perceptibly, twining itself over and around Peter's at the target "We got him!"  
  
"Yeah," Peter returned, bracing himself feet apart "And now that we got him, what are we gonna do with him?"  
  
"Feeed me .flesh thing." The nether-lord rose higher through the floor, swelling until he filled the eight-foot space between floor and ceiling. Then he began to shrink and opaque, solidifying before the humans' stunned eyes. "Feeed Naggaoth" he hissed, snapping his alligator jaws together in Peter's direction.  
  
"This is like... bad, isn't it?" Peter asked with more than his share of understatement.  
  
Egon nodded. "I'd say so." And then he was backing hurriedly out of the way of another angry swipe of those razor-claws, dropping to his knees to continue his own attack. "We*re not going to be able to hold him much longer," he said with alarming calm. "And once we fall...."  
  
"Ray won't have a chance," Peter finished grimly. "And where is Winston?"  
  
*** 


	7. Chapter 7

Unknown to him that question was being echoed on the other side of the lab door, where Al was dramatically relating the events of the on-going battle.  
  
"And the two of 'cm are taking on that monster alone, Sam - must be ten feet tall!" He raised both hands and rose up on his toes the better to illustrate the point. "It must'a already ate Zeddemore, 'cause he ain't back by now and it's not that far to the plane."  
  
"Pulse and blood pressure?" Sam rapped, not raising his head.  
  
Al dutifully relayed the information, finishing with, "...and they can't hold this thing much longer. How much more do you have to do on the kid?"  
  
Sam reached for a scissors. "Finishing final sutures now," he said, plying a needle. "Rough job but I've got the metal removed and most of the bleeding stopped inside. I was right, there were no major organs affected, he was bleeding into the...."  
  
"I don't care where," Al snapped, sticking his head through the wall to better check the battle. "Are you finished?"  
  
There was a pause and a snip, then Sam was dropping the scissors onto a tray and reaching for a towel. "Finished," he announced, glancing at his watch. "With... two minutes to spare."  
  
"Good." Al returned to Beckett's side, making frantic shooing motions toward the door. "Now spare your butt out of here before that monster does! Hang on, I'll let you know when the coast is clear." He again stuck his head through the door, pulling back when Sam called his name. "What?"  
  
"I said I'm not going," Sam repeated patiently. "I can't leave a patient in this condition, What if he has trouble coming out of the anesthesia?"  
  
"What if you have trouble coming out of ol' lizard breath's sharp teeth?" He interlaced his fingers, the very picture of snapping jaws. "Sam, you've done everything you could, now get out of here!"  
  
Beckett ignored him, instead tip-toeing to the door and peeking out. He withdrew just microseconds ahead of the energy bolt which burned a half- inch hole in the wood next to his head. "Wow! That's some serious firepower! I wonder what kind of energy they're working with."  
  
"The kind that isn't working against Mr. Personality out there," Al shot back. "All right, if you're not going to leave, the least you can do is barricade the door or something."  
  
"It can walk through walls," Sam reminded him, re-opening the door. "Oh, boy!"  
  
Alarmed by the familiar epithet, Al joined him at the door, gaping at the sight of Naggaoth, now almost completely substantial, with one great hand locked fully around Peter Venkman's arm and using it to shake the psychologist like a terrier with a rat. Peter's proton gun trailed by its connecting feed line, slapping noisily against Naggaoth's slime covered legs.  
  
"Shoot him!" Venkman screeched, trying vainly to strike at the creature's yellow eyes. "SHOOT!"  
  
Naggaoth paused, still holding Peter high in the air, to lift his head, nostrils flaring. "Naggaoth smellssss blood!" Dripping teeth clacked arrhythmically, the ancient Lord of Decay bent closer to Peter's throat. "Tassste yours."  
  
The outer door slammed open and Winston Zeddemore burst upon the scene, breath coming in panting gasps. He took in the situation in a single sweep of his dark eyes, bringing up his rifle and taking aim.  
  
Egon spun, knocking Winston's weapon down with the barrel of his own. "No, Winston!" he yelled, immediately re-aligning on the struggling duo. "You might hit Peter!"  
  
"Then... hit me," Peter begged, his voice dropping to a croak. "Better that than...."  
  
Sam didn't hesitate. With a hoarse shout he launched himself for Naggaoth's back, wrapping both arms and legs around the slippery body to prevent his being flung off. One arm he freed, however, to reach around Naggaoth's alligator head. He gouged at the creature's right eye, digging his thumb deeply into the socket and twisting. In his substantial form the nether- lord was as vulnerable to such physical disruption as was any living creature. Naggaoth screamed and dropped Peter to clap both hands across his eyes.  
  
Peter rolled free of the creature's reach, coming up short against the old metal stove in the corner. He shook his head twice, his eyes unfocussed, but he reached automatically for the trailing particle rifle and brought it up. "NOW!" Egon yelled, but though both he and Winston opened up simultaneously, once more the elusive entity proved the faster. The liquefaction was almost instantaneous this time and Naggaoth was gone.  
  
"Nuts!" Egon muttered. He tucked his thrower under his left elbow and knelt by Peter's side, slipping his good arm around the dazed psychologist, supporting his back, "Peter, are you all right?"  
  
Venkman took a deep breath then winced and rubbed at his right shoulder, "I may have pulled a muscle- or two," he grated, letting the blond help him to his feet "Other than that-." He broke off as he spotted Sam, who was leaning shakily against the doorjamb. "Why aren't you with Ray?" he demanded, taking a menacing step forward.  
  
Egon stopped him by firmly grasping his uninjured shoulder. "No, Peter. He saved your life."  
  
Venkman stopped, his harsh expression moderating as memory returned. He offered Beckett/Bauer a puzzled look. "I don't know why you did it, but thanks."  
  
"No problem," Sam replied, pulling away from the frame and bending to retrieve the towel he'd dropped.  
  
"No problem, my Aunt Lucretia," Al grumbled, aiming a kick at Sam's backside. "That had to be the dumbest stunt..."  
  
Lips firmly clamped together, Sam straightened and made his way to the lab table, where Ray lay covered to the waist by a clean sheet The area on which he lay, however, was bloodstained.  
  
Winston grimaced at the sight "I see you didn't bother to wait until I got back," he accused, flashing Peter an angry look. "We never agreed to let him," he jerked his head in Sam's direction, "touch Ray."  
  
Peter stared back defiantly. "It was my decision to make," he stated flatly. "No one else had a part in this one."  
  
"And who made you Ray's guardian?" Winston demanded, clenching his fists again. "You're no relative and we're supposed to be a team."  
  
"It was the right decision, ya big dope," Al rapped, pointing his comlink at Ray. "The guy's a little better already, Sam. Looks like you were in time after all."  
  
Peter took a single pace forward, unknowingly passing through Al's chest "Any decision having to do with Ray is mine to make," he returned, his voice as hard as Winston's.  
  
Egon stepped between them, patting Winston's tense shoulder. "This isn't the time or place to discuss this," he said in a reproving tone. "Naggaoth could attack us again any minute."  
  
"And aren't you forgetting Ray?" Sam put in, effectively neutralizing the situation.  
  
Three abashed men clustered around their youngest colleague, Winston laying one hand gently on Ray's sweat drenched hair. "He's so white," he whispered.  
  
Egon delicately lifted one of Ray's wrists. "He is pale," he agreed quietly, "but his pulse is.."  
  
"Regular," Al supplied.  
  
"Regular?" Sam suggested, collecting a pile of towels from a shelf.  
  
Egon shrugged. "It's so faint it's hard to tell."  
  
"How... is he?" Peter asked, with uncharacteristic humility.  
  
"Al?" Sam hailed under his breath.  
  
Calavicci was at his side in an instant. "Vitals are still weak, Sam, but stabilizing well. As long as he doesn't infect too badly, he should make it."  
  
"Meatball surgery was about right," Sam told the Ghostbusters, reaching for a basin. "I wish we could transfuse him but he's stabilizing, at least. Barring infection... bad infection," he corrected himself after another look at the table, "he should make it with proper medical assistance."  
  
Spengler exchanged a relieved look with Peter. "He's breathing better than before," the former said with noticeable restraint  
  
"He should show some improvement now that I have the bleeders tied off," Sam acknowledged. He shoved the basin in Peter's direction and the towels at Winston. "Help me get him cleaned up and out of here. This is hardly the most sanitary room I've ever operated in."  
  
Working together, Winston and Peter began to work on their friend, the tension between them temporarily abated. "The next problem," Winston said, dampening one of the towels, "is Naggaoth. There's no way to tell where he'll pop up next - no way to anticipate him."  
  
"He's got a point, Sam," Al remarked, pacing the room. "I'm going to patrol the grounds awhile. If I see anything, I'll let you know." Sam, scrubbing vainly at dried blood under his nails, simply nodded, though his eyes flashed the older man a grateful smile.  
  
Egon scratched his lean jaw thoughtfully. "I believe that he's going to come after Ray next," he said, watching while Peter dabbed the young man's face with another cloth. "Naggaoth said he smelled blood."  
  
"That's right" The psychologist paused, frowning thoughtfully. "I remember one of the witnesses... or was it one of the Indian legends?"  
  
"Legend," Egon confirmed. "Naggaoth is attracted to fresh blood and the only one of us wounded...."  
  
"Bleeding," Peter corrected, gently working his wrenched shoulder.  
  
Egon nodded. "As Naggaoth's not the brightest being we've ever faced, it's my guess... my psychological evaluation," he amended, sending an impish grin in Peter's direction, "that he's going to run true to pattern and follow the smell of fresh blood."  
  
"Soon, too," Peter added. "I get the feeling he needs to eat again fast. Chances are that the next attack will be all or nothing." He turned to Sam, still in the far corner. "You fulfilled your part of the bargain, Bauer," he said, his tones neutral. "You're free to go now."  
  
"But I suggest that you don't leave right away," Egon interrupted. "Naggaoth may still decide to go for an easy target - it's been a long time between... meals."  
  
Sam shuddered. "I think I'll stick around then," he said, offering the man a sickly smile. "I didn't spend all those years in college to become somebody's between meal snack." He stared down, disgusted, at his blood- spattered clothing and boots. "I'd better find something else to wear; I look like a traffic accident."  
  
While Sam hunted for shirt and trousers baggy enough to fit over his muscular frame, Winston and Peter continued their own task, and thus it wasn't long before Ray was clean, dry, and dressed in fresh pajamas from Bauer's meager collection. That was when Sam returned to the lab, valiantly striving to unfasten the sticky shirt. "Be careful how you lift him," he admonished, growling when his zipper surrendered a single inch before retangling itself in the material. "If you pull out those sutures. I'm going to have to put him under again, and I don't think his system will stand additional anesthesia."  
  
Peter nodded shortly and slipped his arms under Ray's shoulders and thighs, intending to carry him into the other room. He gasped as his shoulder protested the strain. "Bad idea," he grunted, twisting his lips ruefully. "Winston?"  
  
Zeddemore shook his head. "Can't do everything yourself," he said meaningfully, if without malice. He unsnapped the buckle securing his proton pack at his waist, then shrugged out of the heavy weapon, allowing it to slip to the floor. He then elbowed Peter aside and lifted Ray himself, very carefully, as though he were handling something infinitely fragile. "I'll take Ray," he said. "You keep an eye out for...."  
  
"SAM!" Al shouted, appearing out of thin air. "I just saw...."  
  
"Mine." There was no warning for the Ghostbusters, for Sam had no time to draw a breath before Naggaoth was upon them. "My bloood,'' the swamp spawned nether-lord boomed, taking a swipe at the nearest target, Sam. Sam reeled back, coming up short against a sideboard, then dropped to his knees. There was no maneuverability in the small, overcrowded room, no place to dodge or hide, and Naggaoth's talons missed Sam's head by scant inches.  
  
Naggaoth cocked his head, attempting to focus his one remaining eye on the retreating team. "My blood!" he raged, turning finally on Winston.  
  
The black Ghostbuster edged backward warily, still clutching Ray tightly in his arms. Winston gulped noisily. "A little help here, guys," he requested, taking another careful step.  
  
Peter fired off a short, controlled burst and Naggaoth lashed out angrily, striking the heavy table with one powerful arm. It flew across the room, catching Peter flat on and smashing him into a shelf-laden wall. The table landed half atop him, only its angle to the wall preventing his chest from being crushed in. He lay stunned for several seconds unmoving, then shoved weakly against it, unable to find enough leverage to free himself from its weight.  
  
Meanwhile, Naggaoth was again sniffing the air like a spaniel, apparently able to differentiate between human odors and his own stench. "Blood," he crooned over and over. "Pretty blood."  
  
Winston glanced nervously down at Ray, who was still deeply unconscious, while continuing to back slowly away from those razor edged claws. "Ray's blood," he breathed hoarsely, circling the outer perimeter of the room a single step at a time.  
  
But it was no longer Ray who was covered with the sticky fluid. Naggaoth ignored the two after no more than a cursory look, turning instead to the corner in which Sam huddled. The large nostrils flared wide. "Sssssmell blood there," he said, happily starting forward.  
  
Al jumped in front of the terrified surgeon, waving his arms and yelling loudly. "Back off. Snake Breath! Shoo! Go away!"  
  
That was when Egon acted. Hampered by his broken wrist, he nevertheless managed to unclip his particle thrower and fire off a burst, bracing his legs carefully against any recoil. Naggaoth turned almost casually and struck out again, catching the unprepared physicist across the chest and tossing him into the corner in which Peter lay helpless. He then resumed his steady advance on Sam's position.  
  
Behind Al, Sam still struggled with the stubborn zipper. It came free with a ripping sound and he pulled off the stained shirt, hurling it forcefully into Naggaoth's upturned face. The nether-lord chuckled and the shirt passed harmlessly through his immaterial form. "Naggaoth sssmellss blood," he repeated,  
  
Sam retreated again, until the wall itself pressed into his back. His escape was blocked on either side by shelves and there was no way past Naggaoth's long reach at the fore. He froze, mesmerized by the creature's flat yellow eyes. "Al?" he squeaked.  
  
Across the room. Peter stretched out his hand, slapping Egon forcefully on the arm. "Egon!" he called as best he could with the table restricting his breathing. "Egon, get up!"  
  
Spengler uttered a loud groan and complied, shaking his head dazedly. "I'm... uh... up," he grunted, adjusting his glasses with a shaky hand. "Don't yell."  
  
A single shove was enough to shift the table, sliding it easily to the floor. Peter groaned and rolled over, rubbing his ribs. "That hurts," he complained, forcing himself to his knees. His pack's weight overbalanced him, but he staggered gamely to his feet, pulling Egon up with him. "Ready?" he asked the blond, wincing when the straps across his injured shoulders and chest tightened.  
  
Egon nodded grimly, retrieved his trailing thrower, and took careful aim.  
  
Naggaoth had by then reached Sam, utterly oblivious to all of Al's attempts against him. "Blood." The creature ran its claws delicately across the human's chest, leaving the lightest of scratches in their wake. "Give it to me! Now!"  
  
Peter grinned. "How can I refuse a request like that?" he asked, firing off a burst of accelerated protons at the creature's back.  
  
Naggaoth hissed angrily and turned, rage contorting the inhuman face. "Naggaoth feedsss, flesh thing! "  
  
"Naggaoth eats proton!" Egon retorted from his new vantage several feet away. He, too, opened fire, showering the scaled skin with blue-white light The nether-lord raised both arms, temporarily frozen in the restraining radiation like a fly caught in amber, howling his displeasure for all the world to hear. Then he began to shrink, gathering both his substantiality... and his power.  
  
"Winston!" Egon called, gasping when his thrower bucked itself nearly out of his hand. "We need you!"  
  
"Why are we getting feedback?" Peter inquired, circling the now motionless Naggaoth, taking care so as to not turn his beam away for a second. He flinched when a deflected particle pulse struck the lab table a shattering blow, bombarding all present with splinters. Peter braced himself and continued to fire without let-up.  
  
Egon stepped nearer, stopping just out of range of Peter's twisting stream. "Naggaoth's bleeding off mental energy to increase his substantiality," he explained, resting his barrel across his injured forearm. "It's setting up a psi-screen that's deflecting our fire. It won't last long, though."  
  
A secondary wave-pulse spattered harmlessly against a shimmering bubble of energy. "Look! You can see the shield now! Why won't it last?" Peter asked, his expression proclaiming the fact that he didn't really want to know in the first place.  
  
That didn't stop Egon, however, from answering the question. "Because in another minute he's going to be too substantial for our throwers to affect," he gasped. Test tubes resting on one of the few remaining shelves exploded suddenly, victims of the high-frequency harmonics put out by the over-loaded packs. Egon closed his eyes briefly against the flying glass, threw back his head and yelled. "WINSTON!"  
  
Zeddemore had by then reached the doorway and Sam, now out of range of both Naggaoth and energy blasts. He shoved Ray into Sam's arms, waiting until the surgeon had braced himself, legs apart and muscles bunched, before releasing his own hold. "Get him out of here," he ordered, giving Sam a shove with one hand. "But not too far; if we can't hold Naggaoth this time...." There was no need to finish. Sam nodded his understanding and slipped through the lab door, Al bravely if futilely trying to cover his back.  
  
Winston leaped lightly across a severed section of the table then ducked as a stray bolt passed too close to his head. "Hold him, guys!" he yelled, dropping to his knees and crawling closer to his abandoned pack.  
  
"We're... trying!" Peter grunted when his thrower twisted itself out of his grip, striking him a nasty blow on the jaw. He went down, the unmanned thrower turning itself off automatically. Naggaoth roared and turned in Egon's direction, but Peter recovered his weapon quickly and renewed his assault, preventing Naggaoth from doing more than glaring at the alarmed blond.  
  
Blood leaked out of the side of Peter's battered mouth, forcing him to spit it out before he could speak. "Any... time you're... ready, Winston," he mumbled, anchoring his weapon against his side.  
  
Winston dodged gracefully through the obstacle course of both his friends' fire and the ricochets off Naggaoth's mental shield, sidled around the claws which emerged from the restraining energy web, and dived for his weapon, reaching it just as Naggaoth began to move. The reptilian took a single step forward, then another, and the dual whine of the packs rose to nearly inaudible levels as they strained to compensate for the additional feedback. Naggaoth raised one massive paw and began a lethal downswing, his target: Peter Venkman's head. Peter held his breath.  
  
"Our turn now, sucker!" the black Ghostbuster gritted, opening up full stream.  
  
Naggaoth's mental shield buckled under that additional power, glowing brightly before collapsing all together. The nether-lord screamed as the three-fold stream touched bare, ectoplasmic flesh, sizzling slightly where it struck.  
  
"We got him!" Winston booted, daring to release his thrower with one hand. He reached cautiously for one of the traps on his belt, pulling it free with a yank. "Ready?"  
  
"Go for it, big guy!" Peter cheered, baring his teeth.  
  
A deft toss deposited the trap directly beneath Naggaoth's spread legs, and then an intense reverse pyramid exploded upwards, bathing him in pure, sun- bright radiation. "Trap open!" Zeddemore warned, shielding his eyes.  
  
Naggaoth screamed again, becoming translucent and beginning to waver and shift. Then the tangible waned and the intangible flowed downwards, drawn inexorably into the gleaming maw of the ghost trap. Winston raised his foot and the trap snapped shut. "We got him!" Zeddemore hooted, raising his fist in a victory salute. "We got him!"  
  
"They got him, Sam!" Al cheered, halfway through the wall. "I can't believe these nozzles did it, but they got him!"  
  
He retreated before the three-man rush out of the lab, Egon pausing only long enough to double-check the trap. A red light blinked serenely, betraying its 'full' status, and Egon swept it up with one hand, holding it aloft like a trophy. He followed his fellows into the main room to where Sam Beckett stood trembling in the cold wind of the open outer door, poised to flee and still holding onto Ray Stantz as though for dear life.  
  
Peter, the first in, skidded to a stop in front of the quantum physicist with less than a foot to spare and affected a casual pose. "Ghostie gone," the psychologist told him, stowing his thrower. "You can relax now."  
  
Sam raised up on his toes to glance disbelievingly over Peter's shoulder. "You... killed him?"  
  
"They trapped him, Sam!" Al corrected, feeling in his breast pocket for a cigar. "Sucked him right down into that dinky little contraption of theirs!" He illustrated this with both hands and sound effects, then extricated a cigar and stuck it into his jaw. "Gone! It was a beautiful job, buddy boy!"  
  
"The... trap will hold him?" Sam persisted, eyeing the miniature containment unit doubtfully,  
  
Peter passed behind him and kicked the door shut "No problem-o!" he confirmed, grinning happily. "Uh... you want to put Ray down now?"  
  
Sam gazed down blankly, the tension seeping out of his body in a rush. "Down. Yes. Of course." He allowed Winston to lift the young man away, then sank into the nearest chair and rested his head in his hands. "I never want to go through that again as long as I live."  
  
"At least you're gonna live, Sam," Al said, consulting his computer link. "The kid's chances of surviving are holding at 88 per cent; he's going to spend some time in the hospital fighting off a nasty infection though."  
  
"Told you so." Sam muttered under his breath.  
  
"But the world's chances are up to 92 per cent." Calavicci grinned over Sam's bent head. "If I were a gambling man, I'd bet my house on odds like that," he quipped. "Especially since we're warned."  
  
"Warned?" Sam asked softly, not raising his head.  
  
Al shrugged. "I've got a feeling the Ghostbusters are about to receive a government research grant. It'll last.. oh, say two years?"  
  
Egon and Peter exchanged a look at this one-sided conversation, then Peter shook his head. He made to speak then froze, mouth still opened, at the sound of propellers coming from almost directly over head. "Helicopter!" he yelled, diving for the door.  
  
A searchlight swept the snow in a steady arc, paused, then returned to spotlight Peter's frantically waving form. "HEY!" the psychologist screamed, jumping up and down. "DOWN HERE!"  
  
The helicopter waggled back and forth once, then an electronically amplified voice announced, "WE SEE YOU. AM SETTING DOWN IN CLEARING NEXT TO PLANE. SHALL CONTACT YOU ROUGHLY FIFTEEN MINUTES." The vehicle waggled once more and then disappeared behind the trees in the direction of the crash.  
  
"We made it!" Peter cheered, throwing himself into Winston's arms and bugging him soundly. "Rescue! Hot food!"  
  
"Hospitals," Egon sighed, easing his broken wrist back into the sling.  
  
"And... police?" That was Winston, the suggestion thrown out delicately.  
  
Peter shook his head. "He saved Ray's life," he stated firmly, leading the way back into the cabin. "If nothing else, we owe him a chance to get away."  
  
"...and they don't owe that nozzle nothing," Al was telling Sam at that very moment. "Listen, Sam, whatever it takes, you'd better make sure this old buzzard doesn't get turned loose on the public again. Drugs are super bad news; if you let this creep go he'll just start producing this stuff again somewhere else. And besides...."  
  
"Besides what?" Sam asked.  
  
Al shrugged. "I can't stand the old SOB. He needs to be locked up."  
  
They both looked up when the three Ghostbusters re-entered the cabin. Peter carefully shutting the door behind them. "You'd better get going," he told the still dazed Beckett stiffly. "You did your part, now we'll do ours."  
  
"We'll tell them we found the cabin empty," Egon added, his expression puckered with distaste. "You should have ample time to escape."  
  
"But I don't want to get away!" Sam blurted unexpectedly. Everyone stared. Sam licked his lips and tried again. "I want to be arrested," he explained, gathering every bit of acting ability he'd never boasted and laying it on thick. "I hate the terrible things I've done. I need to pay for them. I need to be arrested!"  
  
This last was delivered so dramatically that Al actually winced. "At least Don Quixote got to sing," Al groaned, rolling his eyes.  
  
Peter rubbed his arm, stretching the muscles carefully. "Definitely MPD," he said as an aside to Egon. "The internal conflict must be more than the poor jerk can stand."  
  
"We'll be doing him a favor by getting him professional help," Winston agreed, confusion warring with reluctant sympathy in his craggy features.  
  
"You'd better tie me up," Sam added gleefully, holding out his crossed wrists. "I might try to escape." He watched with twinkling eyes while Winston recovered the abandoned rope and secured him to the straight-backed chair.  
  
"I always knew you were a ham at heart," Al chortled, lighting up his cigar. "And remember," Sam finished, delivering the coup de grace, "no matter what I say, don't let me go. I'm tricky, you know."  
  
Peter and Egon left the amused Sam Beckett to Winston's tender mercies, to check on Ray, now lying quietly on the cot. The younger man's breathing was less labored than before, and if there was still very little color in his face, at least there was no less. Peter settled himself gingerly on the edge of the bed, smiling when Ray's eyes opened.  
  
"'bout time you woke up," he teased, patting the man's arm. "You slept through all the action; thought you were going to sleep through the rescue, too."  
  
Ray blinked, obviously registering very little of the speech. "Who...?"  
  
Peter made a face, then grimaced when the action irritated his bloody lip. "Who? Geez, Ray, I'd think by now you could recognize my gorgeous mug without a nametag. You've only known me ten years, after all."  
  
Ray shut his eyes again, then reopened them when Egon called his name. "How are you feeling, Raymond?" the blond asked, bending over Peter's shoulder. "Are you in much pain?" He laid a hand on Ray's forehead. "You're running a fever."  
  
"Egon," Ray whispered, drifting off again.  
  
"He'll be groggy for awhile," Sam called over, "but that should wear off quickly. Wish we had something to give him for pain, but that's going to have to wait. When you get to the hospital, make sure they start him on full- spectrum antibiotics right away." He winced when Winston gave the rope a final tug. "Well, I'll never get out of that," he approved, flexing his fingers."  
  
Zeddemore straightened. "Are you sure about this? You can still get away if you hurry."  
  
Sam shook his head. "No. This is the way it's supposed to be. I hope," he added under his breath.  
  
"Ziggy agrees, Sam." Al Calavicci stooped briefly to examine the knots binding Sam's hands, then circled the chair until Sam could see him. "Boy, those ropes are tight. Do they hurt?"  
  
"Of course they hurt," Sam snapped, forcing a smile when Winston turned to stare at him. "But I like it." Winston shrugged, his attention immediately claimed by a sharp rap on the front door. He opened it to admit two men clad in heavy parkas, one of them carrying a first aid kit, the other a radio.  
  
"We found them," the latter reported into a mike. "One of them is wounded; will airlift him at once. Send another chopper for four men."  
  
"And a policeman," Sam interjected practically.  
  
Al grinned. "Shouldn't be much longer. According to Ziggy, you should be out of here any time n-" Unseen by either Ghostbusters or rescue team, the reality envelope breached, opening to admit Sam Beckett into the ordered chaos men call time/space. A brilliant flash of blue non-light and they were both gone.  
  
Finding himself not only back in his own cabin but also bound and facing two sheriffs deputies, Harry Bauer let loose a stream of curses that drew the attention of everyone there, even Ray, who turned his head to stare blankly at the aged prisoner. "How did I get here?" Bauer demanded, glaring furiously from one stunned face to the next. "Who are you? Why...?"  
  
Peter tapped his temple meaningfully. "I'll explain him later," he said, then patted Ray's arm. "Can we go home now?"  
  
"Sooner the better," Winston agreed. "We've got a full schedule lined up for next week and I for one want a chance to recover first." He winked at Ray, who smiled weakly back. "Big world out there, kid, and ol' Winston wants to see more of it than the inside of one old cabin."  
  
Peter grinned despite his swollen lip. "Big world," he agreed. "And where would it be without us?"  
  
FINISH 


End file.
